


Your Eyes Look Like Coming Home

by owlways_and_forever



Series: James Potter [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Book 1: Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, Gen, Harry Potter was Raised by Other(s), sorcerer's stone
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-02
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-04-07 07:57:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 40,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4255524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlways_and_forever/pseuds/owlways_and_forever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. What if James hadn't died? No rights to characters, etc.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

October 31, 1981

She had wanted ice cream. He had gone out to the store because she wanted ice cream, and he never could deny his wife anything, especially now that she was pregnant again and if she was craving ice cream, of course he was going to go get it for her. She wanted peanut butter, she had specified that, and the first store didn’t have any, so he had gone to a second one, and it was taking longer than usual because he ran into Bathilda Bagshot and nothing had _seemed_ wrong that night, so why not chat with her for a few minutes.

And that was what led to James Potter standing outside his very own little cottage in Godric’s Hollow staring at a giant hole blown wide in the wall of his living room, bag full of ice cream dropped to the sidewalk and forgotten as he approached the small house, anxiety biting at his stomach as he neared the hole. Perhaps foolishly, he still uses the little wooden door, inserting his key and unlocking it before stepping over the threshold, eyes scanning the little hall and seeing nothing. With his heart sinking to the pit of his stomach, James steps carefully into his living room, and the sight before him sends him crumpling to his knees.

Lying on the floor, limbs splayed at odd angles as though she had been knocked over, was Lily, her flaming red hair fanning out as her eyes stared at the ceiling. Tucked under her left arm was Harry, squirming and crawling around, little hands pulling at her shirt and hair, his small noises of frustration growing increasingly desperate.

"Lily?" James calls out to her, inching closer to her, "Lily?!" Harry looks over at the sound of his voice, his wails of distress echoing those now issuing from his father. James gathers his son in one arm and reaches down with his free hand to take Lily’s, feeling instead of his wife’s lively pulse only cold, dead flesh. He lets out a strangled sob, trying unsuccessfully to choke back tears.

"James…" he faintly registers a slightly hoarse voice speaking to him as though from a million miles away, "James you cannot stay here."

"JAMES IGNATIUS POTTER," the voice bellows, snapping him out of his daze so that he turns to regard the body associated with it.

“Dumbledore…” he starts, but he doesn’t have any words to follow. The old man looks at him with a mixture of pity and understanding, and James can’t help but turn away from those piercing blue eyes.

“James, you are not safe yet. We must leave this place.” The old man looks tired, heavy bags under his bright blue eyes.

“I can’t. I can’t leave her.”

“I will make sure she is well taken care of, James, I assure you. At this particular moment, however, you must think of your son. When word spreads of tonight’s events, many will be angry, and the boy will no longer be safe. You must protect him.” The older man fixes James with his piercing stare, not relenting until the younger man meets it with his own hazel eyes.

“Where will I go?” James sighs tiredly, his shoulders visibly slumping in defeat, and in his arm Harry squirms and cries, straining towards his mother’s body.

“There is a small house, in the French countryside, you will be safe there.” The old man, Dumbledore, hands James a slip of paper with four words written on it, _Le Havre, Vitrac, France_. “Apparate here, then burn the parchment. I shall send Remus and Sirius along shortly, when I have taken care of matters here. Of course, when it is time, Harry will most certainly be welcomed at Hogwarts.” James nods absentmindedly in response, his son’s education the farthest thing from the front of his mind. With a deep sigh, James stands, perching Harry on his hip, and looks down at the paper, fixing the words in his mind as he turned on the spot, vanishing into thin air.

With a small pop, James and Harry appear on the doorway of an ivy covered farmhouse, rain pouring down heavily. The house is squat and long, as if it were meant for two families side by side rather than one (it even has two front doors on opposite ends, separated by three shuttered windows). If he were thinking about it, James would find it to be a rather lovely little house, but given the events of the night, he merely ducks his head and pushes the door open, finding a quaint little kitchen with a set of keys on the little wooden table and a note that reads – _Welcome home_ – in Dumbledore’s neat script. James trudges up the stairs and collapses in the first bed he finds, holding Harry close as he lets sleep, and nightmares, take him.

James wakes in the morning to the sound of Harry’s cries and the banging of pots and pans downstairs. Slowly, he picks himself up, rubbing at his head (sore from all the tears he shed the night before), and gathers Harry in his arms, bouncing him up and down and swaying back and forth to try and soothe the boy to no avail (Lily was always better at it). It occurs to him that it’s been hours since Harry ate, and with that in mind he pads downstairs on silent feet. As he enters the kitchen, James is greeted with the sight of his two best friends staring at him in surprise, the expressions on their faces beyond startled at his sudden arrival.

“James, we…” Sirius starts, but he has no words to finish the sentence, instead letting it drop off into nothingness, moving instead to hug him.

”We’re so sorry,” Remus finishes, looking at James carefully, noting the dried paths on his cheeks where tears stained the skin. He motions for James to hand over Harry, taking the boy and rummaging through the kitchen cabinets in search of anything a one year old can eat and settling on some Muggle cereal (something called Cheerios?) that looks alright.

Sirius pours three cups of coffee (James makes them Irish) and sets one down in front of each of them, fidgeting his fingers over the handle of his own nervously as though he is trying desperately to keep something inside, and then suddenly it bursts forth like an explosion.

”I am going to fucking murder Pettigrew.” Remus sucks in a sharp breath and instinctively covers Harry’s ears while James just smiles sadly and shakes his head.

”That’s not going to solve anything, Sirius. It’s not going to bring her back.”

”No, but it’ll make me feel a damn sight better.” James cracks a smile then, and Remus runs a hand over his face, perhaps amazed that his best friend could be so callous and even more amazed that it somehow made James feel slightly better. Harry starts squirming again, so he is placed on the floor, where he is more than content to toddle off and explore the house.

”What do I do now?” James asks tiredly, setting is glasses on the table so he can rake his fingers over his face and through his untidy hair.

”You keep going,” Sirius replies simply, shrugging, as though there could not possibly be any other answer. That’s the way it’s always been with him – simple, uncomplicated, straightforward, never any question, never any doubt.

”How do I do that? And why bother?” He shakes his head again, face covered by his palms, feeling for all the world like grief is a physical weight that rests firmly on his shoulders.

”Because you have Harry, and he needs you,” Remus states, and his voice is beyond calm, which is troubling. Remus was always the proverbial calm before the storm, the quieter and more steady his voice the more likely you were going to look up to see anger blazing behind his eyes.

”Lily’s gone,” is the only reply he can think of, and it’s not a very good one.

”I didn’t say he needs Lily, I said he needs _you_.” His voice is a little louder this time.

” _I_ need Lily! I’m twenty-one for fucks sake! I wasn’t bloody well supposed to be doing this alone!” James is shouting now, unable to control his rage, his fury because this is all so damn unfair. ”My _wife_ just died! Was _murdered_!” His voice cracks on that last word and he collapses on the stool, completely unaware of having stood up. Sirius looks taken aback by his friend’s sudden outburst, but Remus just stands there, resolute.

”But your _son_ wasn’t.”

”Look, mate,” Sirius hastens to add, ”you haven’t got to do this all alone. Why do you think Dumbledore sent us here?”

”I don’t even know… Lily always knew… I haven’t the foggiest what to do with him.”

”He’s not a bloody chicken that needs seasoning and roasting, mate.” James shoots him a withering glare. ”He’s a baby! How hard can it be?”

(Turns out, very.)

”James, were not going to leave you here to grieve and figure this all out alone,” Remus says, all the anger faded, ”but you’ve got to _try_. You need time, sure, take it. Me and Sirius’ll take care of Harry for a bit, don’t worry about that. Just, just promise you’ll make it through this.” James nods, taking a big gulp of his coffee and then stands, embracing each of his friends in turn.

”By the way, why France, mate?” Sirius inquires, raisin an eyebrow in curiosity, and Remus rolls his eyes at the tactlessness.

”No idea,” James shrugs, ”Dumbledore chose it.”

”I wonder if this is the bloody vacation home he’s always going on about,” Sirius mutters excitedly, turning to face Remus and grinning widely. ”Only one way to find out.”

”What’s that?” James asks, his voice sounding exhausted, and yet a little curious.

”Knitting patterns,” Sirius and Remus answer simultaneously.

(They find a whole drawer of them.)

* * *

James drinks constantly for three days before Remus confiscates all the alcohol in the little house, and Sirius volunteers to help scour the property for more and remove it. Apparently Sirius’ idea of disposing of the alcohol involves drinking as much as he can, claiming that he can’t bear to see it all go to waste, and besides, James is the one not allowed to drink anymore, not him. Remus lets him get completely plastered until he passes out on the couch, then successfully removes every ounce of the stuff and hides it by magic until he can figure out how to properly dispose of the stuff. (Just tossing it in the rubbish bin _does_ seem an awful waste.)

* * *

Two more days until James really snaps out of his fog, the one they’ve completely understood because Lily’s death has been hard on them all, and starts trying to piece together his life again.

* * *

“Who the hell changed Harry’s nappy last?!” James shouts down the stairs after he goes to check on his sleeping son, just now starting to wake from his nap.

“I told you that wasn’t how you do it!” Sirius voice floats up, sounding quite triumphant.

“At least I tried to change him! You were more than content to just let him sleep in his own filth!” Remus counters, his voice defiant.

“Harry didn’t seem to be bothered,” Sirius states, calm as can be, though from the tone of his voice, James is sure that he’s grinning like the bleeding Cheshire Cat.

“He’s a baby! _Of course_ he’s not bothered!” Sirius snickers. “I hope you never have children of your own, you great big prat.”

“Ooh, hear that, James? Remus just called me a prat! That the dirtiest word you’ve ever said, Mr. Goody-Two-Shoes?”

“Well, you had to start rubbing off on him eventually, Sirius,” James calls down from upstairs as he struggles to fix Harry’s diaper. He carries the boy downstairs when he’s finished, his little hands already reaching out for his uncles. “You better not teach Harry to talk like you, though. Lily’ll kill me if his first word is ‘bugger.’” The whole room tenses as he realizes what he said.

“What about ‘bollocks’, though? That okay?” Sirius asks hesitantly, as though unsure whether or not he should proceed with the conversation. James just shakes his head and smiles, the ghost of a laugh on his lips.

* * *

They have a funeral about two weeks after it happens, and James, Sirius, Remus and Harry apparate back to Godrics Hollow for the affair. There are others there too, members of the Order – Alastor Moody, Frank and Alice Longbottom (their son, Neville was with Frank’s mother, Augusta), Caradoc Dearborn – and some who were not members but knew the Potters even so – Bathilda Bagshot, Arthur Weasley (though Molly was at home, having just had another child), Sirius’ cousin Andromeda – all wanting to pay their respects.

Dumbledore himself gave the eulogy, after James had declined, and James listened with tears in his eyes. Even Harry had the sense not to cry or squirm too much, and when everything became a little too much for James, Remus took Harry from him so he could bury his face in his hands while Sirius patted his shoulder. James is the first to lay flowers on the lid of the coffin, a circle of roses from him and a bouquet of baby’s breath from Harry, before taking his seat to let everyone else take their turn. When they are all finished, the coffin recedes and dirt falls gracefully on top of it. After all the attendants offer their condolences to James and depart he crouches carefully by the freshly moved soil and plants a few small seeds deep in the dirt, so that maybe a tree will grow one day.

“How are you holding up, mate?” Sirius inquires when they arrive back at the farmhouse at the end of the day.

“I just want today to be over,” James replies, his voice strained from grief and exhaustion.

“Can’t imagine how tough today must have been for you.” His comment is met with silence at first as James draws his hand over his face.

“She was pregnant again. Lily. We had just found out a few weeks before, and we weren’t really ready to tell anyone yet. It was just, we were still kind of getting used to the idea ourselves, it was not exactly expected. Not that we weren’t happy about it –“ Once he starts talking, James finds it very hard to stop, wanting to get everything out now.

“James,” Sirius cuts in, hugging his friend so suddenly it takes him a minute to figure out what’s going on, “I’m so sorry.” James just nods in response and stands, turning away from the kitchen table.

“I’m going to go to bed now I think. Tomorrow is a new day.”

“The start of a whole new life,” Sirius agrees, a tad morosely, and James nods once more before heading upstairs.

* * *

Christmas is a quiet affair that year, just the four of them in the farmhouse (though Dumbledore does stop by for tea in the afternoon, bringing along a little gift for Harry). Most of the gifts are decorations, so that they can start making this little house their very own, Dumbledore gave his blessing and even bought them some cans of paint that could be bewitched to change color. There are picture frames filled with images of their days at Hogwarts, of James’ wedding, of Harry as a baby. Sirius hangs a picture of a flying motorbike on one wall of his bedroom along with some very modern looking pieces of art (which he probably likes mostly because his parents would have been appalled). Remus decorates his room more traditionally, with just a large bookshelf stuffed with books, even more piled up high on a rather well-worn desk. Harry’s room is painted light blue with plenty of little dark blue Quidditch players moving around the walls (James had long been a supporter of the Tutshill Tornadoes, which he very much hoped to pass on to Harry).

Remus manages to cook up a traditional roast for supper (he is a surprisingly good cook, one of his hidden talents), which they all gorge themselves on, and afterwards they indulge in a little pie and custard with their tea. Sirius belts out Christmas carols (god Rest Ye, Merry Hippogriffs getting three reprises) and Lupin suspects he somehow managed to sneak some firewhiskey into his tea.

Harry stays up well past his bedtime that night, until at long last he falls asleep draped across Sirius’ lap, the sound of his singing acting as a lullaby for the little boy. James carries him up to bed, noting how much his son has grown already, amazed at the change he already sees. It won’t be long before he’s off to Hogwarts, James muses to himself, and he suddenly finds that he wants to memorize every last detail of Harry’s childhood, knowing that he’ll never get to do this again.


	2. Chapter 2

Not long before Harry’s second birthday, the Quidditch World Cup takes place in Spain, and James decides that he, Sirius, and Remus should take the young boy to go watch. Even though he has more than enough money to buy a prime tent location, James decides that it would be infinitely more fun to camp out for a few days to get the whole experience. Surprisingly, he had never been to a World Cup before – his parents weren’t very fond of the sport so refused to take him as a child and later there were other things, there was the war – and he’s so excited, it’s like he’s a young child again himself.

They arrive the Monday before the match and set up a tent (Lupin had purchased it at the superstore nearest to them and spent two weeks enchanting it with undetectable enlargement charms and protection spells), taking it in turns to keep a close eye on Harry. The situation is a little delicate, all three of them are aware that there are still Death Eaters on the loose, some who would give their right hands to finish what Voldemort had set out to do. So they watch, and they don’t let the boy out of their sight, and they each alter their appearances just enough (James turns his hair to a light, mousy brown color and changes his eyes from hazel to green, gives Harry the same color hair and brown eyes, Lupin lengthens his nose and thickens his eyebrows, wearing different glasses than he would normally, while Sirius shortens his hair to a buzz cut and grows out a lengthy beard). It’s surprising how well these small changes conceal them.

The week is full of drinking and games, and Sirius and Remus sit around socializing with the other parents of children just as much as James (at this point, they’re really much more like fathers than “uncles” anyway). They see little Seamus Finnigan, his father looking thoroughly overwhelmed by the magical community, and meet a little boy names Oliver Wood who seemed more than a little obsessed with Quidditch. Amelia Bones is there with her family, and of course, Amos Diggory, who would never miss an opportunity to demonstrate his standing. Harry flies around on his little toy broomstick, though he was getting a little old for it (the tips of his toes were starting to skim the grass), pleased as punch by his surroundings.

Saturday morning, Harry wakes at the first sign of light, jumping up and down on James’ chest until he groggily rubs his eyes and pushes himself into a seated position.

“Daddy!” the little boy shrieks happily, “Daddy, breakfast!”

“Shh, Harry, let’s not wake the whole camp,” James reprimands, getting to his feet and taking his son’s hand. “What would you like to eat this morning? Bangers and mash? Bacon and eggs? Toasted brioche?”

“Eggs! Eggs, eggs, eggs!” Harry starts chanting over and over, and James hears Sirius turn over and cover his ears with his pillow with a groan (he never was a morning person).

“Harry, I told you, it’s quiet time right now.” He sighs in exasperation as he moves outside with all the necessary items, Harry trailing along behind him every step of the way. James grills up a few pieces of toast for them, then fries a pound of bacon, and lastly cooks several eggs, making what he feels is certainly a very nice breakfast for the four of them.

Lupin is the first to exit the tent, yawning and stretching his arms high above his head as he does, sniffing at the air.

“Bacon and eggs?” he says, his tone mockingly condescending.

“There’s toast too!” James replies, faux insult colouring his voice, despite the smirk on his face. “I’m not the culinary genius, mate. If you wanted something more sophisticated, you should have gotten your backside out of bed a little earlier.”

“Daddy, food!” Harry whines, tugging on James’ pants, and he scoops a helping of the food onto a plate for the little boy. Subsequently, he doles out servings onto plates as Remus ventures back into the tent to rouse Sirius. When they both emerge, Sirius is in the form of a shaggy black dog, and Harry squeals with happiness and claps his hands.

“Finish eating first, Harry, then you can play,” James instructs, as he holds out a plate for Sirius, who doesn’t even bother changing back to his human form, instead just lapping his tongue over it, slobbering everywhere as he wolfs down his food. When James is satisfied that Harry has eaten his entire breakfast, he helps him clamber onto Sirius’ back, at which point the shaggy black dog begins gamboling about with enthusiasm, though always careful not to hurt Harry. When Harry eventually rolls off Sirius’ back and onto the ground, he flops down beside the little boy and buries his wet nose in the child’s belly, wiggling back and forth the way a human might if they were blowing raspberries. After a few more minutes of play, Sirius disappears into the tent to return to his human form and make sure his disguise is in order before exiting once again to lounge with them in the grass.

More people are starting to awake and emerge from their tents now, stretching away sleepiness as the buzz of excitement that comes with game day begins to grow and fill the air with electricity. Around lunchtime, people start filing into their seats (the better your seats, the later you get to show up), and the four boys watch people pass them as they eat their lunch. Lupin somehow managed to whip up a delicious paella (“While in Rome…” he says when Sirius asks why they’re not just having sandwiches), and fills little Tupperware containers with chicken and potatoes for later, not trusting the stadium vendors to be selling anything up to his standards for dinner (they eat it happily, though James and Sirius also insist on buying copious amounts of junk food while Remus rolls his eyes next to them).

They take their seats around 5pm, high up in the stadium (almost to the top), the chatter of the crowd almost a roar.  At precisely 6 PM, the lights around the stadium dim and darkness falls, a hush settling over the crowd, and after a few seconds, bright beams of light pierce the sky, moving back and forth as the announcer proclaims the opening of the World Cup finals, introducing each nation’s mascot in turn. First is Morocco, and from their side of the pitch floated up what looked like a large burgundy balloon, in the center a large black star, and then it began flicker a rainbow of bright colors before bursting apart as a hundred four foot long birds with brilliant plumage flew in circles over the crowd, singing harmonic notes that made James feel feather light. The birds began landing, one perching on the railing right in front of him and he reached out a hand to touch it, starting to feel a little giddy, but Remus stopped him.

“Their song, it will make you go insane unless you silence them,” he instructs, raising his wand, but at that moment, the birds all stopped in unison, clamping their beaks shut as though given a cue by an unseen witch or wizard.

“What are they?” Sirius asks, James shaking his head as though to clear it.

“Fwoopers,” Remus replies, giving James a pitying glance.

He doesn’t have enough time to explain before Poland’s mascot arrives in the form of a huge red eagle popping up from the Quidditch pitch. A closer look reveals little men dressed all in red digging their way up from underground, leaving holes bored into the ground. The crowd is in an uproar, but their anger soon fades when it becomes apparent that as soon as the creatures leave their tunnel, it closes up behind them, and all is forgiven when they disperse and start tossing rubies and pearls into the crowd. Shrieks echo through the stadium as the little men pop up under people’s seats, scattering more of the precious stones around. Harry delights in picking up as many as he can, though James quickly takes them from him before he can swallow them. After a few minutes, the little creatures dissipate and can be seen taking their place near the Polish goalposts.

“Karzełek,” Lupin explains, “a bit like leprechauns, but for miners.”

The announcer’s voice rings out over the stadium again, ready to introduce the players.

“First, for the Moroccan side – captain Samir Benjelloun! Yahir Abergel! Yesenia Azoulay! Naima Bakir! Aden Bouazizi! Sanaa Harrak! Amira Hikmat!*” Seven figures fly onto the pitch wearing fluttery black robes that cover all but their eyes, tendrils of fabric streaming behind them in all directions, silvery-red letters on their backs proclaiming the names that had just been announced and the only thing distinguishing one from another.

“And now, the Polish team – captain Bogumil Tomczyk! Pelagia Badowski! Domicylla Bednarek! Gwidon Kapel! Elwira Kolodziejski! Maciej Wieczorkowski! Baltazar Zmijewski!+” Seven more figures, this time in clean cut, bright red robes fly out from the other end of the pitch, their broomsticks all painted a crisp white (a closer inspection would show each player’s name and an eagle emblazoned in red on the tips of their brooms).

“Last, but certainly not least, this year’s referee – Vasilios Nikodemus Kyriakos!” The captains of each team land in the middle of the pitch with the referees, while the rest of the team members lined up ten meters behind their respective captains.

After the necessary traditional pleasantries were exchanged, the captains returned to their teams and everyone took the positions for takeoff. Within a few seconds, the referee blows his whistle, and the players launch themselves into the air, their robes flapping behind them as they speed in all directions. Within two minutes, Poland is winning 30-10. After an hour, the score is 150-60 in favor of the Polish national team. Another hour and the score is 170-80, and the fouls are starting to become more blatant as both teams feel increasing pressure to win. The third hour passes and Morocco starts to catch up, the score 170-120, and violence between the two teams is rampant. After another hour and a half, one of Poland’s beaters, Gwidon Kapel, slams his bat into Aden Bouazizi’s face, and the latter is taken off the pitch for a full five minutes to be treated by mediwizards. Despite arguing that the blow was accidental, Morocco receives a penalty, which they make the most of, scoring another goal. After five hours, the score is tied at 190, and the game is starting to get very dirty. Several of the players have waved off the mediwizards, preferring to deal with their bloody noses and broken limbs in the form of renewed vigor, trying even harder to win the game. Harry’s already started to doze off, his little body curled up in James’ lap, and James has to admit he’s not complaining – this is not the kind of Quidditch he wants his two year old son to witness. But around the sixth hour, when the seekers (Wieczorkowski and Azoulay) start showing signs that the capture of the snitch is imminent, James shakes Harry awake, knowing the boy would want to witness the end (he might also tell a little white lie and say he’s only been dozing a few minutes, rather that two hours). When Yesenia Azoulay wraps her hand around the golden snitch and raises it high in the air (after a particularly spectacular bit of flying), Harry claps his little hands together and shouts in excitement, and in that moments, James _knows_ his son is going to be a seeker, and a damn good one.

 

* * *

* /saMEER benjeLOON/, /yaHEER aberGEL/, /yeSAYneeuh ahzooLAY/, /NEH’eema baKEER/, /Ădin booahZEEZEE/, /SENah huhROCK/, /uhMEERuh hickMUT/

+ /BOHgooMEEL TOMchick/, /pellAHgeeuh BĂdovskee/, /DOMeeTILLuh BEDnahreck/, /GVEEdon KAHpell/, /elVEEruh kuhwahlJEEskee/, /MAHchee VEEdjorKOVskee/, /BALtazar zmeeYEVskee/


	3. Chapter 3

No one could ever say that Sirius was not good with his godson; the man absolutely adored the little boy, doted on him and spoiled him beyond belief. If there was one thing Sirius could not handle, however, it was sticky hands, and either James or Remus seemed to have made a very amusing game of getting Harry to chase after Sirius every time he had anything even remotely sticky on him. It’s not so much that he is opposed to making messes, Sirius is usually the first to make up games with Harry that involve tossing sofa cushions around the house and the last to clean them up, but when it comes to all things sticky, Sirius is a tad… squeamish.

One warm summer afternoon, Harry decides to try to make himself lunch, climbing up onto a stool and pulling peanut butter from the cabinet and homemade jam from the fridge and placing them both on the kitchen table next to the bread. He slides two slices out of the bag (several crumbs coming with them), and takes a butter knife (which is way too big for his little hands). First he spreads the peanut butter on both slices of bread, getting it all over his hands and arms, then he scoops out jam and tries to spread it on top of the peanut butter, succeeding only in making more of a mess, getting jam on the table and all over himself. Frustrated by his inability to make his sandwich, Harry starts to cry little tears, and he climbs down from the stool (getting jam and peanut butter on it and the table) to seek out assistance. Sirius, reading the newspaper in the living room, is the only one Harry can find, so he runs over and grabs Sirius’ exposed wrist and tugs.

“Oh, god!” Sirius shouts, jumping up from the couch, and Harry reaches out again, this time getting a sticky fistful of shirt. “Harry, no! What do you need?” He pries the little fingers off his shirt and uses one already jam-covered hand to hold Harry at arms length.

“I tried to make a sandwich,” Harry whimpers, moving back towards the kitchen, and Sirius follows with a resigned sigh.

“Bugger,” he exhales upon seeing the sticky, jammy mess, and he reaches for the sponge in the sink. Just then, Remus walks through the door, and Sirius lets out a sigh of relief.

“What’s going on in here?” he asks, taking in the mess and Sirius’ distressed expression as he scoops Harry into his arms without even hesitating at the mess that would cover him.

“He tried to make a sandwich by himself,” Sirius explains as Harry buries his head in Remus’ shoulder.

“Ah, I see,” he answers, giving Harry a little squeeze. “You go clean up, I’ll take care of this.”

“Thank you,” Sirius breathes, and he tosses the sponge to Remus, heading upstairs to the shower.

Even though it was just his arm and clothes, Sirius takes a shower anyway, feeling like his whole self was contaminated by just a little jam (he really abhors messes). When he comes back downstairs he finds Harry munching away happily on his sandwich, jam dripping onto a plate on his lap, and Remus in the kitchen, scrubbing down an already clean-looking table to make sure Sirius isn’t bothered by it.

“Thanks, mate,” he says, his voice expressing all the relief and gratefulness he feels.

“Not a problem, I know how you are.” Remus smiles kindly – he truly doesn’t mind, he’s always been that way, concerned with how he can make things easier for his friends.

~ ~ ~

Their little farm is relatively self-sufficient - James does most of the gardening while Remus looks after the livestock. They don’t have much, just a few cows, sheep, and chickens, but they get by with it. Sirius helps with the harvest sometimes, particularly in the apple grove, where he lifts Harry onto his shoulders and the two of them pluck the ripe fruit from the branches, but mostly he works to earn them the little money they need to purchase anything else (clothes and meat and luxuries like books or toys). He writes, edits, and translates for newspapers, some muggle but mostly wizard (he claims it’s easier, less confusing), and edits some manuscripts for a muggle publishing company that does fictional stories (he likes this best) while he works on a book of his own. And this delegation, this break down of responsibilities seems to work for all of them – James likes working with his hands, probably because it keeps him from thinking too hard about what he’s lost, while Remus enjoys caring for the animals, to whom he feels particularly attached, and Sirius loves staying inside, watching Harry (he also does a lot of Harry’s schooling), and avoiding getting dirty at all costs.

Sirius’ favorite part of the day is the afternoon, when he takes Harry for a bike ride into the town a few miles away, and the two of them pick up a loaf of baguette to go with dinner (as well as anything else they need) and they practice their rusty French as they talk to the boulanger and the pâtissière.

Remus’ favorite part of the day is the evening, when Harry comes home from the bike ride with Sirius and brings all the groceries into the kitchen, climbing up onto the stool to help cook dinner. Lupin teaches him everything he knows, how to cook meat and make pies, how to bake cakes and how to cook by taste rather than from a recipe.

James’ favorite part of the day is the night, when he gets to carry his sleepy little boy up to bed and tuck him in, asking which bedtime story he’d like to be read tonight. And then, with blankets tucked up to his chin and a little stuffed owl under his arm, Harry listens attentively as James reads him a story, occasionally chiming in with parts he already knows. Eventually, his eyelids grow heavy and start to close, though he will fight as hard as he can to make it to the end of the story, but inevitably, by the time James kisses his forehead and whispers “I love you,” Harry is barely able to even murmur the words back before his eyes close completely and quiet snores escape his small body.

(Harry’s favorite part of the day is when he first wakes up and goes downstairs, finding all three men sitting at the kitchen table, reading different sections of the newspaper and drinking steaming mugs of coffee to prepare themselves for the day ahead, and they are indistinguishable from one another, each one looking like a typical father, because that’s their number one job, better than anything else, and Harry’s always known it.)


	4. Chapter 4

Harry’s four when he starts having trouble seeing; he’s five when James _notices_ he’s having trouble seeing. He notices when they’re watching television (Sirius insists on the muggle invention, and James has to admit it is pretty wonderful), and Harry keeps asking what the score of the football game is. He loves the game, although James thinks it’s a bit dull compared to Quidditch, and it James is taken aback when he realizes that his son can no longer really see what is going on in the game. He doesn’t want to upset Harry by asking about what can often be a very sensitive subject, but he also doesn’t want to show up at an eye doctor’s office if he’s wrong and it’s perhaps something else.

“Harry,” James starts, sitting down on the couch next to his son one afternoon after he and Sirius get home from their daily trip to town on the way home from school, “are you having some trouble seeing things?”

The little boy shook his head, color rising in the pale cheeks under the mop of messy black hair.

“It’s okay if you are, munchkin, I just want you to tell me so I can help you.” James watches closely as Harry chews on his lip, trying to decide whether or not to tell the truth or keep it to himself. “There’s nothing wrong with you if you’re having trouble, we just need to get you some glasses, that’s all.” He tries to sound as encouraging as possible, but he’s not sure it works until –

“The other kids will make fun of me…” Harry says in a quiet voice, his bottom lip poking out in a pout and quivering slightly.

“Why do you think that?” James asks, a puzzled look on his face.

“Pierre Soucy has glasses and everyone makes fun of him. And… they already think I’m weird.” He looks down like he’s ashamed and it’s the most heartbreaking thing James has ever seen from his little boy, and he hopes that the look he’s seeing now is one that never reappears on his son’s face.

“Why do they think you’re weird, munchkin?” He cocks his head to the side, wondering what could be going on that he didn’t know about.

“Because strange things happen around me. Marius Faucher was being really noisy while we were doing work and I told him to stop but he didn’t and so I got mad and I told him to shut up and I know I’m not supposed to say it but I got mad and I did and then he tried to talk and he couldn’t. I didn’t mean to do it! And I don’t have a mommy like the others do.” Harry bursts forth all the information at once, speaking in a long stream all at once as though he were scared James might be upset by what he had to say.

“Harry, listen to me very carefully,” James answers, pulling the little boy in very close as he talks, “you have a mother. She loved you very, very much, munchkin, and she wanted nothing more than to keep you safe, and that’s why she’s not here.”

“Anaïse has two dads…”

“Er, her dads are a little different. But it’s really important that you understand that Anaise and her dads, and you and me, that’s not any less of a family than anyone with a mom and a dad. Families come in all shapes and sizes, Harry, there are lots of different kinds, but that doesn’t make one better or worse than another.”

“Okay.” James furrows his brows in thought – he’s pretty sure Harry understands his point, but he also worries that maybe it’s time to have _the_ conversation, the one he’s been dreading for years, the one where he has to explain everything to his son because he’s getting old enough where he might start to understand, and he needs to understand. “Daddy, can I go now? I’m hungry…”

“Yeah, sure munchkin. There’s some raisins in the kitchen, you can have those as a snack, it’ll be time for supper soon.”

“Okay.” With that, Harry gets up and ventures into the kitchen to find himself a snack, and James rakes his hands over his face and through his hair as he considers what he must do.

After a few minutes, James hears footsteps and opens his eyes to see Sirius bounding down the stairs, looking very pleased with himself.

“What’s got you looking so glum, mate?” he asks, cocking his head to the side and peering at James through his mane of shaggy black hair.

“I think it’s time to tell Harry everything,” James answers, his voice echoing the exhaustion he already feels just at the thought of this conversation.

“Everything?” Sirius replies, letting out a long, low whistle when James nods and plops down next to him on the couch. “Well, Remus and I will be right there with you, you know, for moral support or whatever.”

“Thanks,” he responds, giving his friend a weak smile.

They set the dining room table that night, something they rarely do (really only on holidays or special occasions), and Lupin cooks up a special roast because that’s Harry’s favorite. At first, they exchange the typical small talk, discussing the events of the day and school and the affairs of the world, but then James steels himself and plunges into the real issue at hand.

“Harry, you said earlier that sometimes weird things happen to you, do you know why?” James asks, hoping that this is the best way to start.

“Magic,” Harry shrugs, and the three adults look at each other, not sure if the little boy really understands and believes it or not.

“Yeah, magic,” James replies, and Harry looks up at him, his expression almost reading like surprise, as though he didn’t expect his father to believe him. “We’re all wizards, Harry, which means we can do magic.”

“Is _everyone_ a wizard?” Harry asks, doing his best to follow his father’s thoughts.

“No, Harry, not everyone can do magic. Nonmagic people, we call them muggles,” Harry nods slightly, recognizing that he’s heard the term before, “are much more common, and they don’t know about magic. That’s why your classmates don’t really understand. And it’s very important that you don’t tell them.”

“Why?” Harry questions, his little face scrunched up in confusion.

“Those are the rules,” Remus jumps in. “It makes everyone safer that way.”

“Okay,” Harry accepts, just shrugging in response.

“There’s something else I want to talk to you about, munchkin,” James ventures carefully, standing to grab one of the few pictures of Lily and Harry they have and placing it on the table in front of them.

“Mommy?” Harry asks, looking between the photo and James, a little apprehensive.

“Yeah. A while ago…” he starts, but he can’t seem to get the words out, his voice simply stopping to work.

“A while ago,” Sirius picks up, giving James a small nod of reassurance, “there was a very bad wizard, and he thought that wizards were better than muggles, especially wizards called purebloods, which are families that are all wizards all the way back, with no muggle family members. He wanted to get rid of everyone who wasn’t a pureblood, and he did a lot of really bad things to try to get what he wanted.”

“Your mom and dad, and Sirius and I, were part of a group of people who were trying to stop the bad guy,” Remus explains, and Harry looks at them with a little bit of pride, which makes James’ heart swell.

“The bad wizard found out that we were fighting him, so when you were born, your mom and I went into hiding. We trusted one person with our location, someone we thought we could trust, but he told the bad guy where to find us, and one night he came looking for us. I wasn’t home, it was just you and Mommy, and she fought him to save you, but he… she died trying to keep you safe.” James pauses to let Harry take in the information and give him a chance to ask any questions if he has them, but he says nothing.

“Your mom loved you, Harry, more than anything. I hope you know that,” Sirius says quietly after a moment, but still Harry stays silent.

“He killed her?” Harry says at last, and James nods hesitantly, and then Harry looks down at his hands, folded in his lap. “Because of me?”

“No!” James answers quickly. “No, Harry. He killed her because he’s a terrible wizard. It was not your fault, okay?” Harry nods and stays quiet for a little while, James, Sirius and Remus exchanging looks over his head.

“Can I be excused now?” Harry asks, pushing his chair back from the table slightly.

“Sure, munchkin,” James answers, and the young boy stands and carries his plate to the kitchen. A moment later, they hear him trudge up the stairs, the door of his bedroom closing lightly. “I’m not sure how that went,” James groans, rubbing his face tiredly.

“I think it was about as good as you could expect,” Sirius replies, tucking back in to his dinner, not at all deterred by the dissipation of the heat.

“He’ll come around,” Lupin reassures him, patting his shoulder gently. “He just needs some time to think, it’s a lot to process.”

“Yeah, of course.”

Harry doesn’t come back downstairs the rest of the night, so James goes up to check on him after a while, finding the little boy sitting on his bed, turning a photo of the three of them over and over in his fingers.

“You okay, munchkin?” James asks, leaning against the doorframe as he watches his son.

“Yeah,” Harry responds sadly, still staring up at the ceiling. “I can’t remember her. I tried to, but I can’t.”

“I know, you were just a baby. But you have pictures and we can tell you anything you want to know about her.” James moves across the room to sit on the bed next to Harry, and when the boy shifts over, he lies down next to him and Harry curls up into his side.

“I miss her, Daddy,” Harry whispers into his father’s shirt, little hands gripping the fabric tightly.

“I miss her too, munchkin, I miss her too.” James presses a kiss to the top of his son’s head, ruffling his messy hair.


	5. Chapter 5

Harry’s birthdays had never been terribly exciting – not that he minded much, they were perfectly pleasant as they were, his father and uncles baking him a cake that was always somehow a bit of a mess and performing all sorts of tricks with magic, stringing up lights and decorations, letting Harry do anything he wanted for the day and getting (or making) him as many presents as they could come up with – but this year proves to be a different story. This year, Harry is turning eleven years old, a big year for a wizard as it means he is finally allowed to attend proper school. Which means that _this year_ , for his birthday, James, Sirius and Lupin are taking Harry to Diagon Alley for the first time ever, and he can’t wait.

They use the Floo network to travel to the Leaky Cauldron (which has a special, dingy little foyer for precisely that purpose) and wave hello to Tom as they pass through, and Harry notices several heads turn his way, inquisitive stares plastered on every face.

“Dad, why is everyone staring?” Harry asks, feeling quite confused, but he didn’t even get a chance to answer before a small woman with side swept hair approached and shook his hand vigorously.

“Doris Crockford, Mr. Potter, can’t believe I’m meeting you at last,” she said enthusiastically before another woman pushed her way in, wringing his hand.

“So proud, Mr. Potter, I’m just so proud.”

“Always wanted to shake your hand – I’m all of a flutter,” another woman said, she kept fanning herself with one hand as though she might collapse at any moment.

“Delighted, Mr Potter, just can’t tell you,” a squeaky little wizard ventured, his top hat toppling right off his head in excitement, “Diggle’s the name, Dedalus Diggle.”

A tall, pale looking wizard made his way toward them, looking almost as nervous as Harry felt, and Remus offered him a warm smile.

“Ah, Quirrell! Nice to see you again. I hear you’re a professor this year!” he said, trying his best to look encouraging, and Quirrell nodded in response before turning his attention back to the young boy.

“P-P-Potter,” he stuttered, shaking Harry’s hand (somewhat less exuberantly than the others), “c-can’t t-tell you how p-pleased I am to meet you.”

“What sort of magic do you teach, Professor Quirrell?” Harry asked kindly, smiling with interest.

“D-Defense Against the D-D-Dark Arts,” Professor Quirrell muttered, as though he wished to change the topic. “N-not that you n-need it, eh, P-P-Potter?” He gave a weak laugh and Harry and James both grinned tentatively. Sirius, on the other hand, beamed with pride at his godson. “You’ll be g-getting all your equipment, I suppose? I’ve g-got to p-pick up a new b-book on vampires, m-myself.” He gave a little shudder at the thought, as though he would rather be doing anything else.

Others approached and Harry did his best to try to remember all their names, smiling and listening to all their tales and thanking them for their compliments. It was all very uncomfortable for him, not feeling like he had done anything to merit this kind of attention, he was, after all, just Harry.

“Where’s Hagrid?” Sirius muttered through gritted teeth, wanting very much to be out of this establishment as soon as possible. Dumbledore had insisted on having a little extra security, though James had protested that surely three adult men were enough to keep an eleven year old boy safe, but in the end they all agreed that it was better to be overcautious.

Just then a man – only he could not really be described as a man, as he was twice as tall, with a broad belly, shaggy hair, a grisly beard, and hands the size of dustbin lids – entered the tavern, grinning broadly and the three men and Harry.

“’ello there!” He greeted warmly, and his voice was like a deep rumble of thunder, crackly and oddly soothing. “’ow’re yeh doin’ then?”

“Lovely, Hagrid, shall we –“ James starts, but the large man pays him little mind.

“An’ you mus’ be Harry,” he says, turning his attention to the boy, who looked very surprised, and taking in his appearance. “Yeh’ve grown a bit since I las’ saw yeh. Course yeh were on’y a baby then. Yeh look just like yer father though, ‘cept the eyes, always ‘ad yer mother’s eyes.”

“Hi,” Harry manages to squeak out in response, feeling very apprehensive about the new member of their little party.

“Right, shall we leave then?” Sirius interrupts, looking around edgily. “I’d like to get out of this bloody place before we get accosted by another group of people.”

“You bin havin’ trouble?” Hagrid replies gruffly, though he starts moving towards the back door immediately, leading the others.

“Not really,” Remus interjects, “just a few people keen to meet the Boy Who Lived.”

“The what?” Harry asks, feeling confused, but Remus shakes his head, not intending to respond just then.

“It’s what some folks like to call yeh,” Hagrid answers when no one else does, “fer survivin’ You-Know-Who’s attack.”

Harry squirms, feeling doubly uncomfortable now, but they’ve reached the back alley, and Hagrid is tapping the brick wall in an odd pattern with a strange, flowery pink umbrella. They stand back, James pulling Harry with him, and the brick shifts, revealing a large archway in the wall. Harry gasps, his eyes wide with excitement and awe, and he leans forward to peer into what he immediately thought was the most amazing place he had ever seen.

Lining both sides of a cobblestone street were the most wonderful shops Harry could imagine – Flourish and Blotts, Gambol and Japes, Madam Malkins, Slug & Jiggers – and Harry beamed as he took it all in.

“Got yer letter?” Hagrid inquired, as if Harry could possibly forget the item that had him bouncing all over the house when it had come in the mail – emerald green writing on parchment, with the Hogwarts crest on the back.

“Yeah!” the boy exclaimed, forgetting his apprehension in lieu of enthusiasm.

“Righ’ then, what’s it say?” Harry pulled out the envelope, extracting both pages and proudly handing the first to Hagrid, which read:

HOGWARTS SCHOOL _of_ WITCHCRAFT _and_ WIZARDRY

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore

(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)

Dear Mr. Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

Deputy Headmistress

After giving Hagrid a moment to smile appreciatively at the letter, Harry looked at the second sheet of parchment and began reading aloud:

First-year students will require:

  1.      Three sets of plain work robes (black)
  2.      One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear
  3.      One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)
  4.      One winter cloak (black, with silver fastenings)



Please note that all pupil’s clothes should carry name tags.

All students should have a copy of each of the following:

The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk

A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot

Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling

A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch

One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore

Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger

Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander

The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble

OTHER EQUIPMENT

1 wand

1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)

1 set glass or crystal phials

1 telescope

1 set brass scales

Students may also bring, if they desire, and owl OR a cat OR a toad.

PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST-YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICK.

“Right then, where should we head off to first?” Lupin asks Harry, and the boy pauses, overwhelmed by his choices.

“I think we’ll need to make a pit stop at Gringotts before we go anywhere,” James answered, pointing toward a large white marble building.

“Works fer me,” Hagrid adds, nodding toward the same building, “Got a bit of official Hogwarts business ter take care of.”

They set off down the street toward the bank, occasionally grabbing Harry’s hand an pulling him on as he pauses to take in a shop window display. As they approached clearly, Harry could see the ornate bronze doors, next to which stood –

“Goblins,” Sirius said, ducking his head down to whisper in Harry’s ear, “nasty little creatures, very greedy.”

Harry looked at the two creatures – they were short, much shorter than Harry, with a cunning little look on his face and eerily long fingers and feet. Once inside the bronze doors, they faced a second set, this time silver, with words etched into the surface:

_Enter, stranger, but take heed_

_Of what awaits the sin of greed,_

_For those who take, but do not earn,_

_Must pay most dearly in their turn,_

_So if you see beneath our floors_

_A treasure that was never yours,_

_Thief, you have been warned, beware_

_Of finding more than treasure there._

“What does it mean?” Harry asks, looking up his father concerned.

“It means yeh’d be mad ter try an’ rob it,” Hagrid answers gruffly while James offers a reassuring smile and leads Harry through the doors. They approach one of the goblins at a long counter with scales at intervals, and James pulls a key out of his pocket, placing it on the counter.

“I’d like to access my fault,” he says, and the goblin eyes him shrewdly, picking up the key and examining it carefully.

“That seems to be in order,” the goblin replies, his voice sounding like gravel.

“An’ I’ve also got a letter here from Professor Dumbledore,” Hagrid interjects, pulling a sealed envelope from one of the pockets (there seemed to be hundreds) and depositing it on the counter. “It’s about the You-Know-What in vault seven hundred and thirteen.” Sirius and Remus exchange quick glances with furrowed brows, but, no one says anything, letting the unspoken question hang in the air.

“Very well, I will have someone take you down to both vaults. Griphook!” He motions with spindly fingers towards yet another goblin, whom they follow toward one of the doors leading into a series of tunnels. The six of them climb into a cart squishing together to fit, and once they are all inside, it takes of through a maze, twisting and turning seemingly of its own volition. They almost fall out of the cart in their haste to exit the cart once it stops, the goblin taking James’ key and inserting it into a very small hole in the rough stone wall Harry had not noticed earlier. There is a clicking sound of gears unlocking and then the door swings open, and Harry is astonished by the blinding gold light emanating from inside. He had known that they were well off, but this – piles of gold stacked high in two thirds of the cave-like room, a mixture of smaller silver and bronze coins in the remaining third – was much more they he thought. James reached in and scooped a handful of gold into one bag, then a handful of gold and silver into another, handing it to Harry.

“Don’t spend it all at once, alright?” he instructs, and Harry nods in understanding. Griphook seals the vault again, giving the key back to James, and they squeeze into the cart again, setting off further into the bowels of the bank. They stop again in front of another indistinguishable expanse of rock, and this time Griphook runs a finger down a length of wall, and it simply vanishes, melting into nothing. Harry is able to catch a glimpse of a small, tattered looking parcel before Hagrid snatches it up in one large hand and stuffs it into one of his coat pockets. Once more they pile into the cart and set off, all feeling a bit queasy by the time the make it back to fresh air.

Madam Malkin’s is situated right near Gringotts, so they decide that robes might as well be the next stop. Inside, Harry meets a very unpleasant looking boy with a pointed face and pale, silver blonde hair. He seems beyond spoiled and Harry is reminded of a bully at his old school who had always been determined to get anything he wanted, and Harry dislikes the boy very strongly. Afterward, they grab ice cream from Florean Fortescue to attempt to ease the sickness still lingering in their stomachs from the Gringotts carts, and then venture out to get the rest of Harry’s supplies. The last stop is Ollivanders, the only place to get a decent wand. The inside of the store is small and dusty, cluttered with long, thin boxes strewn about upon every possible flat surface. Hagrid excuses himself, saying there is one more stop he wants to make while they’re occupied, since he would be unlikely to fit inside the shop without knocking even more boxes about. Harry waits quietly for a moment, looking around the place, feeling oddly nervous, as though he were about to sit an exam for which he was very poorly prepared.

“Good afternoon,” a quiet voice whispers from the shadows, startling Harry so much that he visibly jumps.

“Hello,” Harry replies, feeling very awkward.

“Ah yes,” the wizard says, stepping into the light, and Harry can see that he is very old, with pale eyes, wide and shining like moonlight in the gloom. “Yes, yes. I thought I’d be seeing you soon, Harry Potter. You have your mother’s eyes. It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm work.” Harry gave a nervous glance toward his father, and Ollivander followed his gaze. “Your father,” he adds, nodding toward James, “on the other hand, favours a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and excellent for transfiguration. Well, I say your father favours it – it’s really the wand that chooses the wizard, of course.”

The old man had moved closer as he talked, so they were now standing only inches apart, Harry feeling very uncomfortable and wishing he could be anywhere else. Ollivander reaches out and touches the lightning bolt shaped scar on Harry’s forehead, and out of the corner of his eye, Harry can see Sirius tense, ready to spring to action, but Remus places a tentative hand on his shoulder, telling him to wait.

“I’m sorry to say I sold the wand that did it,” Ollivander continues, either not noticing or not caring about the tension now emanating from the corner where James, Sirius and Remus stood. “Thirteen and a half inches. Yew. Powerful wand, very powerful, and in the wrong hands… Well, if I’d known what that wand was going out into the world to do…”

He shakes his head sharply, as though calling himself back to reality and the task at hand. Ollivander begins carefully measuring, seemingly anything he can think of, all the while chattering to them about wand cores and wand lore. The first wand Harry tries (Nine inch beechwood and dragon heartstring) is wrong, Ollivander snatching it back when Harry attempts to wave it and nothing happens. The next (maple and phoenix feather, seven inches) is snatched from his hand even faster, and the third (unicorn hair and ebony, eight and a half inches), is also a dud. He tries wand after wand and tries not to pay attention to his father’s tired looks and Sirius’ slumped posture, sinking further down with each passing minute.

“I wonder, now,” Ollivander stops suddenly, looking back down the shelves behind him. “Yes, why not – unusual combination – holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple.”

Harry takes the wand, and immediately feels a warmth spreading through his fingers, so he waves it through the air and a shower of red and gold sparks burst forth, eliciting claps from James, Sirius and Remus.

“Well, well, well… how curious… how very curious…” Ollivander muses, apparently lost in thought.

“Sorry,” Harry interrupts, confused, “but what’s curious?”

“I remember every wand I’ve ever sold, Mr. Potter. Every single wand. It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand, gave another feather – just one other. It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother – why, its brother gave you that scar.” Harry feels a shiver run down his spine as a chill sweeps over him. “Curious indeed how these things happen. The wand chooses the wizard, remember… I think we must expect great things from you, Mr. Potter. After all, He Who Must Not Be Named did great things – terrible, yes, but great.” Another chill passed over Harry and he took a step backward inadvertently, James coming forward to offer up seven galleons as Harry hastily exited the shop.

Outside, Harry found Hagrid sitting on a bench that was absurdly small for him, and he looks up beaming when he sees Harry, holding out a cage filled with a snowy white owl.

“Happy birthday, Harry!” he says proudly, grinning so widely that his beetle black eyes crinkle at the corners.

“Hagrid! Thank you!” Harry cries, smiling until he thinks his cheeks will split and reaching over to give him a gigantic hug.

“Yeh’ll have to give ‘er a name,” Hagrid says, patting Harry on the back (a little harder than he means to, undoubtedly).

“Hedwig,” Harry answers quickly, and Hagrid nods his approval, “I saw it when I was flipping through A History of Magic.”

At the end of the day, after a quick drink with Hagrid at the Leaky Cauldron, James, Harry, Sirius and Remus use the Floo network to return to their house in France. Harry spends the rest of the evening sorting through all his new belongings (he got quite a few things that were not on the list of necessities), and starting to pack, although Sirius tells him several times that he’s going to unpack and pack again ten times before he leaves.

 

* * *

 

 _Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone_ , pg 43, 52-66


	6. Chapter 6

They arrive at Kings Cross station with plenty of time, James steering a trolley containing Harry’s trunk and Hedwig in her cage perched on top. They buy a cup of tea, mostly to warm their hands (it is a rather cool morning) and to kill time, before they meander their way to the platform, Harry talking nonstop about everything that might happen at Hogwarts this year, and James just smiling at him, not wanting to ruin the moment.

After about an hour, James checks the time on the big clock hanging from the wall, and is surprised to see that they have less time than he’d though, quickly gathering up their things and setting off, Harry trailing behind.

“You have your ticket, right?” James asks, and Harry pulls it out of his coat pocket.

“It says Platform nine and three quarters. But Dad, that must be wrong, Platform nine and three quarters can’t possibly exist, can it?” Harry asks, feeling more than a little bit confused. Before James can answer him, a woman’s voice rings out through the station.

“…packed with muggles of course…” Harry turns to see a plump little woman walking briskly toward him, five children in tow, the four boys with trunks very much like Harry’s, and all of them with flaming red hair. “Now, what’s the platform number?” she asks, and the little girl holding her hand is more than happy to supply the answer.

“Nine and three quarters! Mum, can’t I go…” she whines, tugging a little on her mother’s hand.

“Come on, Harry,” James prods, smiling at his son and gesturing after the red-haired family, who had reached the barrier between platforms nine and ten at this point. As Harry and James approached the family, he watches as what appears to be the oldest son pushes his trolley toward the divide and then… he simply vanishes! Harry must have blinked or something, because he seems to have completely missed what the older boy did to get through!

“Fred, you next,” the woman says, turning to one of two identical boys.

“I’m not Fred, I’m George,” he replied, looking quite insulted. “Honestly woman, call yourself out mother? Can’t you _tell_ I’m George?”

“Sorry, George, dear,” she responds with a wince, patting his shoulder gently.

“Only joking, I am Fred,” the boy says, setting off toward the barrier as his mother threw her hand up in the air with exasperation. Just like his brother, this boy had simply walked toward the barrier and then disappeared. His twin set off as soon as he was through, and vanished just like the other two. Harry stared in amazement and confusion, his face most likely a mask of bewilderment and a little trepidation. The woman turned to face her last remaining son, catching sight of Harry as she did and smiling warmly.

“Hullo, dear. First time at Hogwarts? Ron’s new, too.” Harry looks back at his father, who, trying to encourage him to make friends (Harry had always been a bit shy as a child), nods, giving him a gentle shove toward the family.

“Yes,” he replies hesitantly. “The thing is… the thing is, I don’t know how to…” he jerks his head toward the barrier slightly.

“How to get on to the platform?” she chuckles, but instead of making Harry feel embarrassed, the sound is oddly comforting, and he nods. “Not to worry. All you have to do is walk straight at the barrier between platforms nine and ten. Don’t stop and don’t be scared you’ll crash into it, that’s very important. Best to it at a bit of a run if you’re nervous. Go on, go now before Ron.”

“Dad,” Harry says, turning to where his father stands only a foot behind him and feeling very anxious. James steps forward, nodding to Harry, and as he pushes his trolley forward toward the barrier, James falls into step behind him, reaching his arms around to grab the handle next to Harry’s hands. Together, they walk toward the barrier, people jostling them every so often as they move forward, and as they get closer to the solid brick wall, they pick up the pace. Just before they reach it, they break into a heavy run and Harry closes his eyes, body bracing automatically to the crash that never comes.

When he opens his eyes, there is a scarlet steam engine puffing out smoke at as it waits next to the platform, a sign reading _Hogwarts Express, 11 o’clock_ hanging overhead. He whirls around, grinning at his father and sees a plaque with the words _Platform Nine and Three Quarters_ scrawled across it, making Harry beam even wider. The noise is almost deafening, the chatter of children saying goodbyes mixing with the hooting of owls and the thumping of trunks being dragged up the steps of the train. Students pack the first few carriages, so Harry pushes his trunk further down the platform until he finds an empty compartment, his father helping him lift the trunk inside before pulling him aside.

“Harry, I want you to remember that I love you, no matter what happens, and that I’m very proud of you, we all are. Your mother would be too.” James places his hand on his son’s cheek, patting lightly as he tries not to get too emotional. “You’re going to have a fantastic time, I know it. Try not to get into too much trouble. And here, take this,” he pulls a small frame out of his coat pocket, handing it to Harry, who gazes at the picture of his mother, rocking a small baby with a shock of black hair back and forth, the little boy reaching one tiny hand up to curl her auburn hair around his fingers.

“Thanks, Dad. I love you too.” Harry reaches up to give his father a hug, and after a moment pulls back, holding the little frame to his chest. The scarlet train lets out a long warning whistle and Harry scrambles onto the train after one last quick hug, poking his head out the window to wave to his father as the steam engine kicks into gear, chugging forward slowly at first and then faster. James stands and waves, only a few feet away from the plump, red-haired woman, and Harry returns the gesture until the train rounds a bend and he can no longer see the platform.

As Harry leaned back in his seat, his head tipped back against the soft cushion, the door to the compartment slides open, and the red-haired boy from earlier pokes his head in.

“Anyone sitting there?” he inquires, nodding toward the seat across from Harry. “Everywhere else is full.”

Harry shook his head, feeling a little bit nervous. He had never been very good at making friends.

“I’m Ron,” the boy adds, shoving his trunk onto the rack above the seat and plopping down.

“Harry,” he responds, twisting his hands together in his lap anxiously.

“Are you Harry Potter?” Ron asks suddenly, and Harry rather finds he likes the boy’s forwardness. “Only there’s a rumor that he’s here and you look like you could be him. Percy reckons your dad looks a bit like James, but what does he know.”

“Yeah, I am him. Harry Potter, I mean. You know my dad?” Harry responds, intensely curious.

“Nah, not me. But Percy would’ve been about four the last time Mum and Dad saw your parents, and he says he remembers. I reckon he might, or he could be a big, fat liar. He is a bit of a prat,” Ron grimaces, and Harry can tell the two brothers don’t exactly get on. “Have you really got… you know…” he points at Harry’s forehead, which makes him chuckle a little bit as he pulls back his fringe, revealing the lightning bolt shaped scar above his eye, and Ron gasps, clearly impressed.

“I can’t remember it,” Harry states quickly, answering the question he knows is on Ron’s mind.

“Nothing?” the red head asks.

“Well – I remember a lot of green light, but nothing else,” Harry amends, feeling sheepish, as though he is worried that the boy won’t want to be friends if he finds out Harry isn’t as cool as everyone hopes. “Wish I’d had three wizard brothers,” Harry blurts out suddenly, surprising both of them.

“Five,” Ron groans back, looking very downcast. “I’m the sixth in our family to go to Hogwarts. You could say I’ve got a lot to live up to. Bill and Charlie have already left – Bill was Head Boy and Charlie was captain of Quidditch. Now Percy’s a Prefect. Fred and George mess around a lot, but they still get good marks and everyone thinks they’re really funny. Everyone expects me to do as well as the others, but if I do, it’s no big deal, because they did it first. You never get anything new, either, with five brothers. I’ve got Bill’s old robes, Charlie’s old wand, and Percy’s old rat.” He pulls an old, fat rat from his pocket, but it doesn’t even wake up. “His name’s Scabbers and he’s useless, he hardly ever wakes up. Percy got an owl from my dad for being made Prefect, but they could aff - I mean, I got Scabbers instead.”

Ron turned a deep shade of pink, as though fearing that he’d said too much, and Harry realizes that he’s worried Harry might not like him if he realizes he’s poor, but Harry can’t think of anything he’d mind less.

“I live on a little farm, kind of,” Harry says, trying to make Ron feel more at ease. “Just me and my dad and my two – well, we call them uncles, but they’re just my dad’s friends, but they’re really more like dads anyway, they’ve lived with us since my mum… Anyway, we just have this little farmhouse, and we grow a lot of our own food, and we have a couple sheep and two cows, and few chickens. No other wizards around though, just muggles, so I didn’t really… people didn’t like me so much. They thought I was weird.” He feels very vulnerable saying this, but he likes Ron, and the boy shared something personal, so he feels like he ought to as well.

“That sounds brilliant! We have some chickens too, mostly gnomes though,” Ron frowns, “bloody annoying they are.”

Harry grins, thinking to himself that he’s never met anyone he’s bonded with quite as quickly or easily as Ron, and he feels like he’s just found his best friend.

“You ever play wizard chess?” Ron ventures, standing up and pulling a thin, wooden rectangle and a bag full of pieces from his trunk.

“Not really. My… Sirius likes to play, but Dad doesn’t like it at all.”

“I can teach you, if you like,” Ron says, looking eager, and Harry nods happily.

The first game is mostly Ron teaching Harry the rules, correcting him when he tries to make illegal moves, and occasionally offering advice when he makes a bad move. After that, they play for real, although Ron beats Harry every time – he’s brilliant at it, and Harry thinks he might even be able to beat Sirius if they were to play each other. They quite lose track of time as they play game after game, the countryside whirring past them unnoticed as the afternoon progresses.

“Anything off the cart, dears?” a woman’s voice calls, and Harry and Ron look up from the chess board quickly to see a plump little witch pushing a cart full of sweets, pasties, and other goodies. Harry looks at the assortment, seeing a whole variety of treats he’s never encountered before, and he pulls out the bag of money his father game him, a slight reckless spirit coming over him as he orders a handful of pasties, ten little purple pentagonal boxes, a box of jelly beans, and a wide assortment of other items – at least one of each thing on the cart.

“Hungry, are you?” Ron asks, with an expression somewhere in between impressed, jealous, and amused.

“Starving,” Harry answers, swallowing a mouthful of delicious pasty.

“She always forgets I don’t like corned beef…” Ron mumbles, pulling a slightly squashed sandwich from his bag.

“Swap you for one of these,” Harry offers, holding out a pasty, “go on.”

“You don’t want this, it’s all dry.” He looks down at his shoelaces, as though embarrassed. “She hasn’t got much time, you know, with five of us…”

“Go on, have a pasty,” Harry insists, shoving the proffered pasty into Ron’s hand and turning toward one of the purple boxes. “What are these? They’re not really frogs, are they?”

“No, but see what the card is. I’m missing Agrippa.”

“What?” Harry asks, not understanding.

“What, have you never seen a Chocolate Frog before?” Ron counters, bewildered.

“No, I haven’t. We only really had muggle things at home,” Harry answers, and this time it is his turn to blush, feeling slightly abashed.

“Oh, well, Chocolate Frogs have cards inside them, you know, to collect – famous witches and wizards. I’ve got about five hundred, but I haven’t got Agrippa or Ptolemy.” Ron turns back to his pasty and begins considering his next chess move.

“I got Dumbledore!” Harry exclaims, excited.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of Dumbledore…” Ron sighs, looking tentatively toward the pile of Chocolate Frogs. “Can I have a frog? I might get Agrippa…”

“Course I have, met him a few times even,” Harry answers, only half paying attention as he waves Ron toward the pile of Chocolate Frogs as though to say _have as many as you like_ , and he begins reading out loud. “ALBUS DUMBLEDORE. CURRENTLY HEADMASTER OF HOGWARTS. Considered by many the greatest wizard of modern times, Dumbledore is particularly famous for his defeat of the dark wizard Grindelwald in 1945, for the discovery of the twelve uses of dragon’s blood, and his work on alchemy with his partner, Nicholas Flamel. Professor Dumbledore enjoys chamber music and ten pin bowling.”

“No, I’ve got Morgana again and I’ve got about six of her,” Ron groans, completely ignoring Harry. “Do you want it? You can start collecting.”

“Sure,” Harry replies, and Ron hands the little card over, just as a pudgy, round-faced boy bursts into their compartment.

“Sorry, but have you seen a toad at all?” the boy asks desperately, but Harry and Ron can only shake their heads. “I’ve lost him! He keeps getting away from me.”

“He’ll turn up,” Harry says kindly, but the boy just gives a groan.

“Yes, well, if you see him…” the boy replies desolately, backing out of the compartment and pulling the door shut behind him.

“Don’t know why he’s so bothered,” Ron scoffs. “If I’d brought a toad I’d lose it as quick as I could. Mind you, I brought Scabbers, so I can’t talk. He might have died and you wouldn’t know the difference. I tried to turn him yellow yesterday to make him more interesting, but the spell didn’t work. I’ll show you, look…”

“Has anyone seen a toad?” A girl with bushy brown hair and buckteeth says, bursting into their compartment just as Ron raises his wand. “Neville’s lost one.”

“We’ve already told him we haven’t seen it,” Ron snaps at her, but she isn’t paying attention.

“Oh, are you doing magic? Let’s see it then,” she says, looking at Ron with interest.

“Er, alright,” he stammers, looking slightly taken aback. “Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow, turn this stupid fat rat yellow.” Nothing happens, and Ron looks both disappointed and annoyed as he glances at Harry, shrugging.

“Are you sure that’s a real spell? Well it’s not very good, is it?” She draws herself up to her full height, chin up proudly, “I’ve tried a few simple spells, just for practice, and it’s all worked for me. Nobody in my family’s magic at all, it was ever such a surprise when I got my letter, but I was ever so pleased, of course, I mean, it’s the very best school for witchcraft there is, I’ve heard  - I’ve learned all our course books by heart, of course, I just hope it will be enough – I’m Hermione Granger, by the way, who are you?”

“I’m Ron Weasley,” Ron answers, looking at Harry as though very disturbed by this fast talking, bossy girl in their compartment.

“Harry Potter,” Harry adds, not entirely comfortably.

“Are you really?” She asks, her eyes widening as she looks at him. “I know all about you, of course – I got a few extra books, for background reading, and you’re in Modern Magical History and The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts and Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century...”

“Am I?” Harry says, surprised and a little self-conscious.

“Do either of you know what house you’ll be in?” Hermione barrels on, completely ignoring him. “I’ve been asking around and I hope I’m in Gryffindor, it sounds by far the best, I hear Dumbledore himself was in it, but I suppose Ravenclaw wouldn’t be too bad… Anyway, we’d better go and look for Neville’s toad. You two had better change, you know, I expect we’ll be there soon.” She turns on her heel and leaves, pulling the door closed behind her.

“Whatever house I’m in, I hope she’s not in it.” Ron says, giving Harry a look as though he’d just seen an alien. “Stupid spell. George gave it to me, bet he knew it was a dud.”

“What house are your brothers in?” Harry inquires, wondering anxiously which house he’d be put in.

“Gryffindor, the lot of them. Mum and Dad were in it too.” He grimaces, as though something has only just occurred to him. I don’t know what they’ll say if I’m not. I don’t suppose Ravenclaw would be too bad, but imagine if they put me in Slytherin.”

“You know, I think the ends of Scabbers whiskers are a bit lighter.” Harry says quickly, trying to change the subject and cheer Ron up.

They return to playing chess, Ron beating him another three times before they are interrupted again, this time by a small boy with white blonde hair flanked by two much larger (and by the looks of them, much dumber) boys.

“Is it true?” the blonde boy asks, staring at Harry. “They’re saying all down the train that Harry Potter’s in this compartment. So it’s you, is it?”

“Yes,” Harry replies curtly, and he and Ron both glance at the two cronies standing a step back.

“Oh, this is Crabbe and this is Goyle. And my name’s Malfoy, Draco Malfoy.” Ron coughs to hide a chuckle, and Harry has to work hard to suppress a grin.

“Think my name’s funny, do you?” Malfoy spits out. “No need to ask who you are. My father told me all the Weasleys have red hair, freckles, and more children than they can afford.” He gives Ron one look of pure contempt before turning his attention back to Harry. “You’ll soon find out some wizarding families are much better than others, Potter. You don’t want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there.” He extends his hand, but Harry ignores it.

“I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks,” he says icily, and Malfoy glowers at him.

“I’d be careful if I were you, Potter. Unless you’re a bit politer, you’ll go the same way as your mother,” he sneers. “She didn’t know what was good for her either. You hang around with riffraff like the Weasleys and that Hagrid, and it’ll rub off on you.”

“Say that again,” Ron says, jumping to his feet as the color rises in his cheeks and his ears turn scarlet.

“Oh, you’re going to fight us, are you?” Malfoy smirks, as Crabbe and Goyle crack their knuckles menacingly behind him.

“Unless you get out now,” Harry threatens, sounding much braver than he feels.

“But we don’t feel like leaving, do we boys?” Malfoy drawls, the tone of someone who is very clearly accustomed to getting whatever he wants. “We’ve eaten all our food and you still seem to have some.” Crabbe and Goyle look greedily toward the pile of sweets, and the latter reaches out a hand to grab some, but he screams in pain before his fingers make it. He pulls away to reveal Scabbers, teeth sunk into Goyle’s flesh, clinging to the boy’s finger as he flails, trying desperately to fling the rat off. Eventually, he his successful, Scabbers flying off and landing hard on the seat as the three boys back out of the compartment and down the passage.

“What has been going on?” Hermione’s bossy voice says as she pokes her head in their compartment again, and Ron just rolls his eyes at Harry, completely ignoring her.

“Have you met Malfoy before?” he asks, eyes narrowing as he regards Harry, trying to figure out what he was missing.

“Just briefly, in Diagon Alley,” Harry explains, shrugging.

“I’ve heard of his family,” Ron replies, his entire expression darkening. “They were some of the first to come back to our side after You-Know-Who disappeared. Said they’d been bewitched. My dad doesn’t believe it. He says Malfoy’s father didn’t need an excuse to go over to the Dark Side.” He turns suddenly to Hermione, who was still standing in the doorway. “Can we help you with something?” he asks, rather rudely.

“You haven’t been fighting, have you?” She asks, looking utterly scandalized. “You’ll be in trouble before we even get there!”

“Scabbers has been fighting, not us,” Ron defends, shrugging as though he doesn’t really care if he gets in trouble for fighting with scum like Malfoy anyway.

“Well, you’d better hurry up and put your robes on,” she says, once again drawing herself up to her full height, feeling very important. “I’ve just been up to the front to ask the conductor, and he says we’re nearly there.”

“Right,” Ron says, turning back to Harry and rolling his eyes. When she still hasn’t left, he whips back around to face her, feeling very antagonized. “Do you mind?”

“You’ve got dirt on your nose, by the way, did you know?” she states, before turning on her heels and slamming the compartment door on them as though highly offended.

“What a nutter,” Ron mumbles, and Harry smirks, although he is not nearly as bothered by the bossy, bushy haired girl as Ron.

They both reach up to pull their trunks down from the racks, extracting their robes and changing with the blinds shut. Within minutes, a voice echoes through the train, and Harry feels his anxiety mounting, a very persistent fluttering sensation rooting in his abdomen.

“We will be reaching Hogwarts in five minutes’ time. Please leave your luggage on the train, it will be taken to the school separately.”

 

* * *

 

Some material borrowed from _Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone_ , pg 69-83


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, so if anyone reading this is fasting for Ramadan, I just want to give you a heads up that this chapter contains some description of the Welcome Feast, so you might want to hold off on this one, or just skip the few paragraphs about it.

As the scarlet steam engine chugged to a halt, Harry and Ron leaned up against the window of their compartment, noses pressed to the glass, trying to catch of glimpse of the school they would call home for the next few months. With a hissing pop, the doors up and down the train released and swung open, students spilling forth onto the platform, buzzing with excitement. The older students took off in the direction they knew they out to head, but the first years hung back, some tentatively setting off in the same direction as the others, some nervously looking the other way, most of them getting pushed in some direction they hadn’t intended to move.

“Firs’ years! Firs’ years over here!” A loud booming voice calls over the noise, and Harry feels himself relax slightly as he spies the massive form of Hagrid swinging a lantern and calling them toward him. “All right there, Harry?” He asks, turning his attention to the small boy long enough to receive a nod in answer, and then once again returning to his task of collecting the first years. “C’mon, follow me! Any more firs’ years? Mind yer step now! Firs’ years, follow me!”

Hagrid set off in the darkness, and the mass of eleven year olds swarmed after him, jogging to keep up with his large strides.

“Ye’ all get yer firs’ sight o’ Hogwarts in a sec, jus’ round this bend here,” Hagrid tells them, beaming with excitement, and Harry can’t help but feel that it’s contagious.

They round the bend and find a glistening black lake, huge, with a forested peninsula sticking out just beyond halfway across. Directly across the water, just to the side of the tree line, a magnificent castle stands majestic up a sloping hill, lights flickering in a thousand windows across the walls and climbing up the turrets. The reflection wavers and glistens in the water, and there is an audible intake of air as the entire crowd of eleven year olds gasps. A small fleet of boats sits on the shore, little wooden rowboats, though Harry can’t see any oars.

 “No more’n four to a boat!” Hagrid instructs, and they all clamber  toward the boats, splitting themselves into groups. Harry and Ron choose a boat next to Hagrid, and to Ron’s displeasure, they are joined by the round-faced boy with the toad and Hermione Granger. He rolls his eyes as she starts chattering away in a whisper, spouting facts about the Black Lake and the Giant Squid and the forest between them and the castle. “Everyone in? Right then – FORWARD!” Hagrid gives the command and the little boats pull away of their own accord, small rivulets of water streaming out from the bow of each one in waves as they glide across the lake.

Harry feels like his head is on a pivot as he looks every which way, trying to take in all of his surroundings. To his left is the forest, a thick mass of trees as far as he can see, denser than any woods he’d ever seen before. Up ahead is the castle, turrets reaching toward the sky, the lights in the window winking at him – as they got closer he could see a massive wooden door that looked as though it could withstand anything, even time. To the right is an open expanse, a cluster of squat buildings near the castle wall and what Harry thought might be a Quidditch pitch in the distance. With a slight bump that sent the round-faced boy lurching forward into Ron, who glared back harshly, the boats reached a dock and Harry followed Hagrid as he stepped out and marched up the slope toward the castle. When they are about ten yards away, the great wooden doors open, light spilling out onto the lawn, and Harry sees a tall figure in heavy robes and a long pointed had standing in the center of the doorway.

“The firs’ years, Professor McGonagall,” Hagrid says proudly, puffing his chest out.

“Thank you, Hagrid, I will take them from here,” Professor McGonagall answers, stepping forward into the light. She doesn’t look inherently frightening, but at the same time, Harry has never felt more intimidated in his life. She’s tall, her greying hair drawn back tightly into a knot at the base of her neck, her sharp green eyes flickering over each of them in turn. Her robes are a deep emerald, made from some kind of heavy fabric that sits elegantly on her frame, and she wears a gold lion shaped brooch clasped at her neck. She turns on her heel, stepping forward into the Entrance Hall, motioning for the new students to follow her. They stop just short of a small marble staircase, beyond which lies another set of grand double doors, a substantial amount of noise issuing forth from behind them, where Harry assumes the rest of the school is now gathering.

“Welcome to Hogwarts,” Professor McGonagall begins, giving the new students the smallest hint of a smile as she speaks. “The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your houses. The Sorting is a very important ceremony because, while you are here, your house will be something like your family within Hogwarts. You will have classes with the rest of your house, sleep in your house dormitory, and spend free time in your house common room. The four houses are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Each house has its own noble history and each has produced outstanding witches and wizards. While you are at Hogwarts, your triumphs will earn your house points, while any rulebreaking will lose house points.” She pauses to give them a stern, disapproving look, as though daring them to test her, only it’s not the kind of challenge Harry reckons any sane individual would accept. “At the end of the year, the house with the most points is awarded the House Cup, a great honor. I hope each of you will become a credit to whichever house becomes yours. The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school. I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting. I shall return when we are ready for you. Please wait quietly.” She turns and walks through a smaller door to the side of the grand ones in front of them, which Harry suspects leads to some sort of antechamber. Without her speech to focus on, Harry feels his nerves begin to mount again, an awful tightening feeling taking root in his stomach.

“How exactly do they sort us into houses?” he whispers to Ron, who had been gazing up at the high arched ceiling.

“Some sort of test, I think,” he mumbles in response, wrenching his eyes away from the ceiling and back to Harry. “Fred said it hurts a lot, but I think he was joking.”

As the minutes pass, the first years slowly start to get more chatty, asking each other questions about the sorting and which house they want to be in. It’s not until she clears her throat loudly (and harshly) that they notice that Professor McGonagall has returned and is standing in front of them once more.

“Now, form a line, and follow me,” she instructs, her tone commanding them to do it _quickly_ as she waits outside the double doors. When all forty students have formed a line two across, the doors to the Great Hall swing open, and Professor McGonagall leads their march toward the front.

Four immensely long tables run almost the entire length of the Hall, house banners hanging above each of them, and along the front, under massive glass windows that took up nearly the entire wall, is another table, perpendicular to the four others, at which sits all the staff. In the center of this table, under the Hogwarts crest, sits Albus Dumbledore himself in an ornate gold chair with crimson velvet cushions. The entire staff table is raised, as though on a small stage, and the first years march toward it behind Professor McGonagall with purpose.

“It’s bewitched,” Harry hears Hermione say behind him, “to look like the sky outside. I read about it in Hogwarts, A History.”

Wondering what she could be talking about, he casts his case about, and eventually looks up, gasping aloud as he sees the ceiling – or rather, lack thereof. Instead of the tall, arching eves he expects to see, Harry finds the sky, open, deep navy blue and velvety, peppered with stars winking down at them, and he tugs on Ron’s sleeve, pointing up. He’s so entranced, he almost doesn’t notice when they stop walking, nearly crashing into the boy in front of him. They’re standing at the foot of the dais now, right in front of the staff table, and an old man with a pronounced limp and a seemingly permanent scowl on his face is carrying a stool and a very old, very patched up hat toward them. He sets it down with a loud _thunk_ and walks away, and the whole room seems to hold its breath, waiting. Suddenly, the hat gives a little twitch at the top, and then opens wide from a slit near the brim, and begins to sing.

_Oh you may not think I’m pretty_

_But don’t judge on what you see,_

_I’ll eat myself if you can find_

_A smarter hat than me._

_You can keep your bowlers black,_

_Your top hats sleek and tall,_

_For I’m the Hogwarts Sorting Hat_

_And I can cap them all._

_There’s nothing hidden in your head_

_The Sorting Hat can’t see,_

_So try me on and I will tell you_

_Where you ought to be._

_You might belong in Gryffindor,_

_Where dwell the brave at heart,_

_Their daring, nerve, and chivalry_

_Set Gryffindors apart;_

_You might belong in Hufflepuff,_

_Where they are just and loyal,_

_Those patient Hufflepuffs are true_

_And unafraid of toil;_

_Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,_

_If you’ve a ready mind,_

_Where those of wit and learning_

_Will always find their kind;_

_Or perhaps in Slytherin_

_You’ll make your real friends,_

_Those cunning folk use any means_

_To achieve their ends._

_So put me on! Don’t be afraid!_

_And don’t get in a flap!_

_You’re in safe hands (though I have none),_

_For I’m a thinking cap!_

“So we’ve just got to try on the hat!” Ron breathes with relief, and Harry smiles, but the knot in his stomach doesn’t loosen. “I’ll kill Fred, he was going on about wrestling a troll!”

“When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted,” Professor McGonagall instructs, before unfurling a roll of parchment and reading the first name. “Abbott, Hannah!”

A small, slightly pudgy girl with mousy brown hair moves forward, not looking nearly as nervous as Harry feels, and McGonagall places the hat on her head. After only a few seconds, it’s mouth opens wide once more and the hat shouts, “HUFFLEPUFF!” The girl smiles and moves toward the table on the middle right, and then it is time for the next student.

“Bones, Susan,” McGonagall calls, and another brown haired girl steps forward, this one hardly looking nervous at all.

 _Is no one else nervous?_ Harry thinks to himself, looking around at the other students as the hat declares Susan a Hufflepuff as well. Boot, Terry is called next, and the gangly boy becomes the first Ravenclaw, joining the middle table to the left as they cheer for him. _What if I get put in Slytherin? I don’t want to end up like You-Know-Who, or Malfoy. What if my house doesn’t want me? What if I get sorted and everyone is disappointed?_ Harry frets as Brocklehurst, Mandy joins Terry in Ravenclaw.

“Brown, Lavender,” McGonagall shouts, and Harry tries very hard to focus on the sorting as a very pretty girl with perfect blonde curls sits on the stool, and the hat declares her the first Gryffindor. The table farthest to the right erupts with cheers and catcalls, Ron’s twin brothers the loudest of all.

Harry fidgets impatiently as Bulstrode, Millicent and Crabbe, Vincent both join the Slytherin table, while Finch-Fletchly, Justin becomes a Hufflepuff. Finnigan, Seamus turns out to be a sandy-haired boy with a thick Irish accent Harry had heard talking when they were waiting in the Entrance Hall, and Harry is quite pleased when he is sorted into Gryffindor (hoping that he’ll be put there as well). Malfoy’s other crony, Gregory Goyle, is (unsurprisingly) sorted into Slytherin, and Harry sees Malfoy smirk happily as his two henchmen sit next to each other, with a gap perfectly Malfoy-sized in between them.

“Granger, Hermione,” Professor McGonagall continues, and the bossy, bushy-haired girl steps forward. The hat sits on her head for nearly half a minute before proclaiming, “GRYFFINDOR!” and Harry hears Ron groan audibly next to him.

Longbottom, Neville takes the longest amount of time of anyone yet, almost a whole minute before the hat pronounces him a Gryffindor as well, and then McGonagall calls forward Draco Malfoy. The hat hardly even touches his head before it declares him a Slytherin, and he walks away, blonde hair perfectly unmussed, to sit between Crabbe and Goyle. Parkinson, Pansy, a huge girl with a demeanor that Harry can already tell will make her a bully, joins the Slytherin table as well. A pair of twins with dark skin and matching braids of silky black hair trailing down their backs get separated, Padma going to Ravenclaw and Parvati joining Gryffindor. And then finally,

“Potter, Harry,” Professor McGonagall calls, her voice ringing throughout the Hall as the students all quiet, straining to get a good look at him as he walks forward and nervously sits on the seat. McGonagall places the hat on his head and he feels it slip down around his eyes and ears, and suddenly the Great Hall is gone, just the inside of the hat and small voice murmuring in his head.

“Hmm, difficult. Very difficult,” comes the gravelly voice of the hat, and Harry is so surprised by it he jumps, nearly slipping right off the stool. “Plenty of courage, I see. Not a bad mind, either. There’s talent, my goodness, yes – and a nice thirst to prove yourself, now that’s interesting… So where shall I put you?” _Not Slytherin_ , Harry thinks, hoping that the hat can somehow hear him, _not Slytherin, please, anything but Slytherin_. “Not Slytherin, eh? Are you sure? You could be great, you know, it’s all there in your head, and Slytherin will help you on the way to greatness, no doubt about that – no? Well, if you’re sure – better be, GRYFFINDOR!”

Harry sighs in relief as Professor McGonagall yanks the hat off his head again, and he even thinks he sees her offering him a small smile, and he grins broadly at Ron as he hurries over to the table below the red and gold banner, with a lion that prances and gives a small roar, barely audible over the din of cheering issuing forth from the rest of the Gryffindor students.

“We got Potter! WE GOT POTTER!” the Weasley twins chorus, and Harry beams at them, feeling more welcomed than he could have imagined, and he plops down into an empty seat across from them and next to Ron’s older brother, Percy. He’s hardly paying any attention, so relieved that it’s all over, when Thomas, Dean, a very tall black boy who had been talking to Seamus Finnigan earlier also becomes a Gryffindor, and Turpin, Lisa goes to Ravenclaw. Then,

“Weasley, Ronald,” is called, and Harry feels the twins and Percy tense as Ron, who is looking rather green at this point, trudges forward toward the stool. Not unlike Malfoy, the hat barely touches his head when it shouts, “GRYFFINDOR!” and Harry cheers loudly, nearly making himself hoarse as the twins whistle and Percy claps enthusiastically, calling out “Well done!” when Ron sinks into the seat next to Harry, grinning from ear to ear. Lastly, Zabini, Blaise is made a Slytherin, and then the Sorting is officially over, and Harry is beginning to realize just how hungry he is as the scowling old man comes back to take the hat and the stool away again. Professor Dumbledore stands, raising his arms for quiet, and the entire student obliges him, not a single one continuing to talk.

“Welcome!” he booms, smiling, and Harry thinks he sees a special little twinkle at him. “Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Oddment! Blubber! Tweak! Thank you!”

Most of the students laugh, though half of the first years look a little unsure, as though trying to figure out whether or not Dumbledore’s speech is a joke or the ravings of a lunatic.

“Potatoes, Harry?” Percy offers, and Harry looks round at the table, startled by the sudden appearance of immense quantities of food, more than Harry and the rest of the Gryffindor students could possibly eat, or so he thinks, until he witnesses Ron loading his plate up so high, it forms a little mountain. “Harry?” Percy asks again, and Harry nods, taking the bowl and spooning some of the roast potatoes onto his own plate.

He grabs chicken and potatoes and some kind of stew and even some aubergine, thinking how much Remus would scold him if he didn’t eat any vegetables with his dinner. There’s carrots, peas, cauliflower, diced potatoes in a cheesy sauce, potato wedges, roast potatoes, a pasta in some kind of green sauce Harry’s never seen before, roast chicken, breaded chicken, chicken in tomato sauce with cheese on top, chicken in some kind of buttery sauce, curry, and a dozen dishes Harry can’t identify. He takes as much as he can, which is nowhere near as much as Ron, and eats until he feels absolutely stuffed, thinking he couldn’t possibly manage another bite, and then dessert appears. There’s treacle and custard, little puffs of pastry filled with whipped cream, half a dozen different types of cookies, a chocolate cake that looks incredibly rich, bowls filled with fresh melon, strawberries, blueberries, grapes, and pineapple, apple pie, cheesecake, and, to Harry’s delight, his favorite, clafoutis. As he served himself a slice of the tasty dish, topped it with a little warm custard, and added a few cookies to his plate, Harry realized he had been so intent on eating the delicious food, he hadn’t been paying attention to any of the conversation around him at all. He looked over at where the sandy-haired boy, Seamus, was talking to Dean, Hermione, and Neville, while simultaneously making a mess of eating the chocolate gateau.

“I’m half and half. Me dad’s a muggle. Mum didn’t tell him she was a witch ‘til after they were married. Bit of a nasty shock for him,” he proclaims as he smears more chocolate icing around his face, and the others laugh, whether at Seamus’ father’s predicament or at the food now covering Seamus’ mouth and cheeks, Harry isn’t sure.

“What about you, Dean?” Neville asks timidly, looking eager to make a good impression on his new classmates.

“Er, I’m not sure,” Dean answers, looking very uncomfortable. “My mum’s not a witch, neither is Dad, and none of my sisters are either, but, well, I don’t know, I suppose my biological father could be, he never told Mum, and he left when I was a baby…” He trails off and Hermione has the good sense to change the subject.

“I haven’t got any magical blood,” she says, rather cheerfully, “so it was ever such a surprise when I got my letter. I think Mum and Dad’ll miss me though, I haven’t got any siblings, so it’ll be just them at home now.”

“I wish I’d had siblings,” Neville muses miserably, picking at his treacle tart. “Then Gran might have someone else to pick on.”

“I’ve always wanted siblings too,” Harry chimes in, much to the surprise of the others. “I think Ron’s incredibly lucky, to have all those brothers.”

“You’re mental,” Ron replies, the words barely coherent through the mouthful of food.

“Oi, we heard that!” Fred, or maybe George, Harry hasn’t quite figured out who is who yet, says loudly. “Ron says he doesn’t like having brothers,” he says to his twin nudging him in the ribs to get his attention.

“Well that’s rather rude,” George, or Fred, responds, considering his younger brother carefully. “Perhaps Ickle Ronniekins just doesn’t like being the baby –“

“Shut it!” Ron interjects, turning bright red. “I’m not the baby, Ginny is.”

“Yeah, but she’s not here, is she, baby brother?” Fred answers with a wide grin, and Ron flushes crimson.

“Don’t worry, Ron, we’ll take good care of you,” George smiles, sharing a wicked look with his twin.

“Yeah, we won’t tell anyone about your teddy bear,” Fred continues, and the others begin to snicker as Ron looks like he might murder the twins.

“You didn’t forget to bring him, did you?” George asks, and Harry truly thinks Ron might punch them.

“Wouldn’t want you to have nightmares,” Fred says, feigning a look of concern.

“This is all your fault,” Ron mumbles to Harry, looking furious with his brothers, while Seamus and Dean clutch their stomachs with laughter, and Neville snorts out his milk. Even Hermione looks like she’s having a very difficult time composing herself. Harry just smiles his apology, which is very ill felt, since he regrets nothing about the situation, while the twins continue their mocking.

“Ahem –“ Dumbledore’s voice floats over them, getting everyone’s attention as he stands once more, “just a few more words now that we are all fed and watered. I have a few start of term notices to give you. First years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all pupils. And a few of our older students would do well to remember that as well.” He looks pointedly towards the Gryffindor table, and Harry is sure that the warning is meant particularly for Fred and George. “I have also been asked by Mr. Filch, the caretaker, to remind you all that no magic should be used between classes in the corridors. Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of term. Anyone interested in playing for their house teams should contact Madam Hooch. And finally, I must tell you that this year, the third-floor corridor on the right side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death.” A quiet murmuring breaks out through the Hall at these words, everyone curious about the cryptic warning.

“He’s not serious?” Harry asks, a little concerned that something so dangerous could actually be in the castle.

“Must be,” Percy answers, a confused look furrowing his brows. “It’s odd, because he usually gives us a reason why we’re not allowed to go somewhere – the forest’s full of dangerous beasts, everyone knows that. I do think he might have told us Prefects, at least.” He bristles at this last point, as though insulted that he was not trusted with such important information.

“And know,” Dumbledore cuts across the commotion, “before we go to bed, let us sing the school song! Everyone pick their favorite tune, and off we go!” He waves his wand and a pink ribbon shoots out, twisting it’s way into words, and Harry tries his best to sing along as the voices of every student joins in the most cacophonous chorus he’s ever heard.

_Hogwarts, Hogwarts, hoggy warty Hogwarts,_

_Teach us something please!_

_Whether we be old and bald_

_Or young with scabby knees,_

_Our heads could do with filling_

_With some interesting stuff,_

_For now they’re bare and filled with air,_

_Dead flies and bits of fluff,_

_So teach us things worth knowing,_

_Bring back what we’ve forgot,_

_Just do your best,_

_We’ll do the rest,_

_And learn until our brains all rot!_

“Ah, music,” Dumbledore sniffles when the last of the students – naturally Fred and George, having picked a slow funeral dirge to sing to – have finished. “A magic beyond all we do here! And now, bedtime. Off you trot!”

Percy stands and calls for the first years to follow him, and they all stand sleepily, a few rubbing their eyes, and follow him back out into the Entrance Hall. They walk up winding marble staircases, and every now and then Percy tells them to jump over a trick step or mind a suit of armor. He keeps up a steady commentary about the history of the castle, pointing out portraits of famous witches and wizards and indicating useful hidden passageways. At one point, Harry witnesses a staircase below them move, so instead of connecting to a fourth floor passage on the left, it connects to a fifth floor passage on the right. Percy assures them that this is entirely normal, and Harry feels a sense of wonder sweep over him. How had his father and Remus and Sirius never told him exactly how amazing this place is, Harry wonders. Sure, they had told him plenty of stories from when they were kids at school, but somehow they had left out all these amazing details. By the time they reach the seventh floor, Harry is getting very tired, and he is extremely relieved when they stop outside a portrait of a very fat lady in a frilly pink robe.

“Password?” she inquired, appraising the new first years.

“Caput Draconis,” Percy replied proudly, loudly and clearly enough for all the first years to hear.

She swings open to admit them, and they all follow Percy through to the common room. Harry looks around and cannot think of anything that would feel more like home – the entire room is furnished in crimson and gold, a gorgeous rug soft under his feet, enormous crackling fireplace across the room, with a collection of red plush couches and love seats surrounding it. A few wooden tables with cushioned chairs sit along one wall, under glass windows, and a rickety wooden staircase leads to two levels of balconies that ring the room, each lined with an assortment of bookshelves, wooden tables, and rings of sofas. Percy directs the girls through a door to the right, and leads the boys through one to the left, where they climb a spiral staircase. Percy directs them through the third floor door, and the five Gryffindor boys find themselves in a round room with five four post beds, crimson curtains hanging from each of them. Between each bed is a tall, skinny window, a wide nightstand with two sets of draws, one for each person, two goblets and a pitcher of water set carefully on the nightstand, and at the foot of each bed is a trunk. Each boy finds his own, and they begin getting their things together. Harry’s bed is closest to the door, next to him is Ron, then Neville, Dean, and finally Seamus, nearest a door that leads to a small bathroom, and in the middle of them all is a small stove, lit with a crackling fire to warm the room. Harry is so tired, he unpacks nothing but his pajamas, and crawls right into bed. He faintly registers Ron saying something, but his brain his foggy from so much food and excitement, and he falls asleep almost immediately.

 

* * *

 

Some material borrowed from _Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone_ , pp 83-97.

Dean’s backstory can be found on an archive of JK Rowling’s official website, but more easily on the his Harry Potter wiki page.

If you want to see a [very] rough sketch of what I imagine the common room to look like, you can view that [here](http://imgur.com/c3i7KOF).

For those of you who don’t know what clafoutis is, it’s a French dessert that consists of flan-like custard mixed with some kind of fruit – cherries, berries, although when I lived in France we usually made it with small prunes. You can see a picture [here](http://www.plumpiecooks.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/06/clafoutis_finis.jpg) or [here](http://i.huffpost.com/gen/991702/images/o-CLAFOUTIS-RECIPE-RASPBERRY-facebook.jpg) - they look kind of weird, but they’re super delicious, I loved them.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long to get this last chapter up. I was hoping to have it done Friday, but then the weekend got kind of hectic, so I didn't have a chance to write until tonight. The next chapter is like, halfway done though, so that means it won't be too long until that's up, if all goes according to plan!  
> Thanks, as always, for reading, and I hope you enjoy this next installment!

In the morning, Harry wakes feeling refreshed and extremely excited, an odd buzz settling in his stomach and radiating through his bones. He’s the first of the five boys up, so he gets out of bed quietly and tiptoes across to the bathroom to brush his teeth. The others are still sleeping when he comes back, so he decides to begin really unpacking his trunk, taking out his uniform and laying it carefully on the bed, folding the three other identical sets and tucking them in the drawers under the bed, and delicately placing the photo his father had given him of his mother on the nightstand. He has a few other possessions that he brought with him, which he places either on the nightstand or in the drawers, and before he know it, his trunk lies empty at the foot of the bed. With nothing else to do, Harry strips his pajamas off and begins pulling on his uniform, buckling the black belt tightly around his hips so his trousers don’t fall down (Sirius had insisted on getting them a size or two up, saying, “If he’s anything like you, James, he’ll outgrow them in about a month).

He hears a groan and Ron’s foot pokes through the curtains of his bed, stretching and flexing as the red headed boy tries to wake himself up. His head makes an appearance next, bleary eyed, with hair sticking up in every direction, and Harry has to work very hard to suppress his laughter. Ron scowls at him darkly, and Harry makes a mental note that his best friend is most definitely not a morning person.

“What time is it?” Ron croaks, taking in Harry’s fully dressed state.

“Seven oh five,” Harry chirps, checking the watch from his bedside table, and Ron lets out another groan.

“Class doesn’t even start ‘til nine!” he cries, flopping back onto his bed, but Harry pokes his head in after his friend.

“Yeah,” he argues, “but if we go down now, we’ll get all the good breakfast before it’s gone.”

Ron eyes him thoughtfully and then a grin spreads across his face and he throws the blankets off himself, grabbing his robes from where they were tossed haphazardly into his trunk.

It appears they were not the only ones with this thought process, however, as when they get to the Great Hall they find a plethora of other students eating at the staff table, as well as most of the faculty. Harry hears gasps as he and Ron walk toward the Gryffindor table, a buzz passing through the room as everyone turns to stare at him, whispering that Harry Potter is there, look, see him?

Harry and Ron eventually take seats near Percy, who was evidently wide awake and chattering to another fifth year student, and Harry bows his head, focusing on serving himself breakfast and feeling heartily embarrassed.

“Just ignore them,” Ron advises, doling spoonfuls of scrambled eggs onto his plate, “they’re all nutters.”

The two boys grin at each other, tucking into the best English sausage Harry had ever tasted. Ron’s mood darkens significantly, however, when Hermione Granger comes down with a rather cornered-looking Neville Longbottom, and the two join them at the table, Hermione talking incessantly about how much she was looking forward to lessons. Harry was excited too, but he felt this girl took it to a whole other level, and he and Ron exchange looks of annoyance.

At about 8:15, when the table is full of students chattering to one another, Professor McGonagall comes down from the staff table, passing out little sheets of parchment with their schedules on it. Harry glances down at their class list, seeing that today’s schedule includes Transfiguration, Charms, and History of Magic.

“You will need to bring all your textbooks with you to class today,” Professor McGonagall announces to the new students. “Your professors will instruct you in the protocol for their particular class when you see them.”

Harry and Ron groan in unison, thinking how heavy it will be to lug that many textbooks around all day, but nevertheless, they stand and climb the seven floors back to Gryffindor tower to collect them.

The parchment with their schedules tells them the classroom locations as well, but Harry and Ron quickly find that this doesn’t help them as much as anticipated, as they still don’t know where the locations are. They skid into the Transfiguration classroom a minute late, earning them a stern glare from Professor McGonagall.

“Your seats, please,” she says, motioning for them to sit at the unoccupied desks in front of her. “As I was saying, Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts. Anyone messing around in my class will leave and not come back. You have been warned.” She gives Harry and Ron a pointed look, and they both grin back at her sheepishly.

“Today, we will begin by attempting to change matchsticks,” Professor McGonagall states, waving her wand so a small match appears in front of each of her students, “into needles, like so.” She demonstrates by twirling her wand, and the match she was holding up turns into a perfect silver needle. With yet another wave of her want, an incantation appears on the board behind her, and she quickly instructs them in the proper want movement. After that, they are on their own, attempting, and largely failing, at their first transfiguration.

During their break for lunch, Hedwig flutters through the open windows behind the staff table, landing on Harry’s shoulder with a hoot. She drops a small, folded piece of parchment in his lap, which he picks up and scans over immediately.

“Its from Hagrid,” Harry tells Ron, looking up with a grin. “He asked if I want to come have tea with him tomorrow afternoon.”

“Sounds nice,” Ron answers, more focused on stuffing his face than plans for tomorrow.

“Want to go?” Harry asks, a little nervous. He had never had a real, true friend to invite along to things before. Ron gives him an odd look before answering.

“Yeah, alright,” he says at last, returning to his lunch.

The afternoon passes in a haze of sleepy lessons – Harry quickly discovers that eating a large lunch heavy foods is not such a good idea, as all he can focus on for the rest of the afternoon is his desire to take a nice long nap in his four poster bed. Charms is a blur – the only Harry remembers is tiny little Professor Flitwick falling off his pile of books when he squeaked Harry’s name during roll call – and Defense Against the Dark Arts is even worse, the heavy garlic odor only adding to Harry’s stupor. He stuffs himself again at dinner, wolfing down the delicious food almost as fast as Ron, after which they head upstairs, relaxing in the Gryffindor Common Room before going to sleep rather early.

Harry wakes early again, leaving a note for Ron to meet him in the Great Hall for breakfast, and decides to take a slightly meandering route down, wandering the halls of the castle and trying to make a mental map. He gets a little lost, however, and it takes him longer than he anticipated to make it to breakfast, so much so that by the time he arrives, Ron is already there, tucking into a plate loaded with sausages and scrambled eggs.

“Oi, where’ve you been then?” Ron calls through a mouthful of eggs.

“Just walking around,” Harry answers, taking the seat next to him and piling food onto his own plate. “You weren’t up yet, so I figured I’d take my time.”

Ron nods absentmindedly, adding a second helping of hash browns to his plate.

“What have we got today?” Harry asks, rummaging through his bag.

“Double Potions with the Slytherins,” Ron answers, cutting viciously into a sausage. “Snape’s Head of Slytherin House. They say he always favors them – we’ll be able to see if it’s true.”

“Wish McGonagall favored us,” Harry muses, thinking of the lengthy homework assignment she had doled out yesterday and the points she had taken from Seamus for setting fire to the desk with his match.

At quarter til, he and Ron make their way down to the dungeons with the rest of the Gryffindors, finding the Slytherin students already situated in the classroom, eyeing them with dislike as they walk through the door. Harry and Ron take a seat at one table, joined shortly after by Neville and Hermione (Ron lets out a disgruntled sigh), and they await the arrival of Professor Snape. It doesn’t take long – within five minutes, the students are startled by the abrupt slamming of the dungeon door as Snape, clad in billowy black robes that remind Harry distinctly of a bat, strides in. He stands at the front of the classroom, eyes raking over the students in front of him, and when his stare alights on Harry, a sneer crosses his face.

“Ah, yes. Harry Potter. Our new celebrity,” Snape says, his mouth curling ominously, and Harry does not miss the unmistakable tone of dislike. He turns his attention to the class as a whole, continuing, “You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potionmaking. As there is little foolish wand waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don’t expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching minds, ensnaring senses,” he pauses for dramatic effect, “I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death – if you aren’t as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach.” His eyes linger on Harry once more. “Potter!” Snape barks suddenly, catching the young boy by surprise. “What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”

“I don’t know, sir,” Harry replies, feeling extremely confused.

“Tut, tut – fame clearly isn’t everything,” Snape sneers. “Let’s try again. Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?”

“I don’t know, sir,” Harry says again, his cheeks beginning to feel a little warm.

“Thought you wouldn’t open a book before coming, eh Potter?” Harry can feel the flush spreading as his temper rises quickly. He had actually opened several of his books and asked his father and Remus and Sirius questions, but he hadn’t remembered _everything_. “What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?”

“I don’t know,” Harry answers for the third time, feeling his temper get the better of him, “I think Hermione does, though, why don’t you try her?”

The class is in uproar – The Gryffindors, who have already established within five minutes their dislike for Snape, are cheering, thrilled by Harry’s daring, while the Slytherins hiss, surprised by his boldness and eager to see him punished.

“Sit down, Snape commands the class, before turning his hateful gaze back upon Harry, black eyes glinting with malice. “For your information, Potter, asphodel and wormwood make a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of Living Death. A bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat and it will save you from most poisons. As for monkshood and wolfsbane, they are the same plant, which also goes by the name of aconite. Well?” He shouts, looking around the class. “Why aren’t you all copying that down? And a point will be taken from Gryffindor for your cheek, Potter.”

Harry stares down at the table, biting his tongue to keep from saying anything.

“You will now begin, in pairs, attempting to brew a potion to cure boils. Follow the instructions on the board,” Snape commands, flicking his wand over his shoulder, and a list of ingredients and directions writes itself.

About half an hour into brewing the potion, Neville’s begins bubbling in a very sinister manner, and Seamus’ cauldron begins to melt, oozing onto the floor and spreading rapidly around the room. A particularly violent bubble burst coats Neville’s face in the foul smelling liquid, and he begins to whimper pitifully.

“Idiot boy!” Snape curses, striding over to their table as students all over the classroom stand on their stools. “I suppose you added the porcupine quills before taking the cauldron off the fire? Take him up to the hospital wing,” he adds to Seamus. “You, Potter, why didn’t you tell him not to add the quills? Thought he’d make you look good if he got it wrong, did you? That’s another point you’ve lost for Gryffindor.”

Harry opens his mouth, on the verge of telling Snape to bugger off, but Ron kicks him sharply in the shin.

“Don’t push it,” Ron mutters under his breath, “I’ve heard Snape can turn very nasty.”

The rest of the lesson passes infuriatingly slowly, and Harry is itching to leave. When Snape finally dismisses them, Harry and Ron practically sprint out of the room, stuffing their belongings in their bags as they go.

“Cheer up,” Ron says, clapping Harry on the back as they trudge across the lawn to Hagrid’s hut, “Snape’s always taking points off Fred and George.”

The thought that losing points perhaps isn’t such a big deal does cheer Harry up slightly, but he thinks privately that, from what he’s seen of Fred and George so far, they probably deserve it slightly more than he had.

They reach the door of the hut and knock, met with a chorus of loud barks.

“Back, Fang, back,” they hear Hagrid call from behind the door. “Hang on, back, Fang.” The door opens to a large, one room cabin, a dining table in one corner and a Hagrid sized bed in the other. There’s already a kettle going in the fireplace. “Make yerselves at home.”

“Thanks, Hagrid,” Harry says with a smile. “This is Ron.”

“Another Weasley, eh?” Hagrid answers, giving Ron an appraising look. “I spent half me life chasin’ yer twin brothers away from the forest.” The red-haired boy frowned, looking glum for reasons unbeknownst to Harry. “So how were yer firs’ few lessons?”

“Rubbish,” Harry answered, and Ron nodded, even more downtrodden. “We couldn’t manage to transfigure our matchsticks, I’ve no idea what happened in Charms, Professor Quirrell’s classroom smells like garlic, and I’m pretty sure Snape’s got it in for me.”

“I doubt it,” Hagrid answers dismissively.

“But he seemed to really hate me,” Harry counters, frustrated that Hagrid is treating like a child.

“Rubbish! Why should he?” Hagrid brushed aside Harry’s concern’s turning his attention back to Ron. “How’s yer brother Charlie? I liked him a lot – great with animals.”

Harry doesn’t listen to Ron’s melancholy response, focusing on a recent edition of the Daily Prophet sitting on the dining table. One article in particular catches his eye, and he picks up the paper to read it.

GRINGOTTS BREAK-IN LATEST

Investigations continue into the break-in at Gringotts on 31 July, widely believed to be the work of Dark wizards or witches unknown. Gringotts goblins today insisted that nothing had been taken. The vault that was searched had in fact been emptied the same day. "But we're not telling you what was in there, so keep your noses out if you know what's good for you," said a Gringotts spokesgoblin this afternoon

“Hagrid!” Harry bursts out, brandishing the paper in front of the man’s nose. “That Gringotts break in happened on my birthday! It might’ve been happening while we were there!”

“Tha’s not sommat fer young boys ter worry about,” Hagrid replies gruffly, snatching the paper away and tossing it in a bin behind him.

“But –“ Harry starts, but Hagrid cuts across him.

“It’s gettin’ late, you two’d better finish your tea and be off before you’re missed.”

Harry and Ron exchange an odd look, perplexed by Hagrid’s response and sudden eagerness to be rid of them. They drain their cups quickly and Hagrid ushers them out the door, waving enthusiastically to them as they trudged away, and then shutting himself in his hut.

“What do you think that was all about?” Harry asks Ron, feeling more curious than ever.

“No idea,” Ron replies, still sounding glum.

“Something wrong?”

“Huh? Oh, no,” Ron answers, trying to force a smile. “Just gets old, having so many brothers, that’s all.”

“Oh,” Harry states, unable to think of anything else to say. They walk the rest of the way in silence, each in their own little world of thought.

The second week of classes passes much as the first had – with plenty of confusion and plenty of homework. Harry feels consistently frustrated at struggling with even the simplest of spells, while Hermione doesn’t seem to have any trouble at all, almost always completing the class’ assignment by the end of the period, if not halfway through. He at least takes heart that Ron is struggling as much as he is, and if neither of them is ever able to quite produce the desired results, that’s still better than some of the other students. Seamus almost always causes whatever he is working on to erupt in flames, while Neville is particularly prone to knocking things over and generally making a mess. It’s all much harder than Harry had thought it would be judging from the ease with which his dad, Sirius, and Remus cast spells. There is some comfort, however, in the fact that of all their classes, Gryffindors only have Potions with the Slytherins, so Harry is able to keep his dealings with Draco Malfoy to a minimum. Until, that is, Ron points out a notice on the corkboard of the Gryffindor Common Room stating that flying lessons, with Madam Hooch, would begin on Thursday, and the Gryffindors would be paired with the Slytherins.

“Typical.,” Harry groans. “Just what I always wanted, to make a fool of myself on a broomstick in front of Malfoy.”

“You don’t know that you’ll make a fool of yourself,” Ron reassures, pushing Harry toward the portrait hole (and breakfast). “Didn’t you fly with your dad sometimes? Anyway, I know Malfoy’s always going on about how good he is at Quidditch, but I bet that’s all talk.”

“Not really since I was a little kid. We never got another broomstick after I outgrew my last toy one,” Harry shrugs. “I asked for one for Christmas once, and I know Sirius wanted to get it for me, but I overheard him and Dad talking one night – Dad said it was too risky, someone might see and then what would we do?”

“Mum used to worry about the same thing, but we live far enough from any muggles…” Ron says, cocking his head to the side. “Besides, she always made sure we stayed in the orchard, and Dad put a spell on that to keep muggles from wandering over.”

They made it to breakfast in time to see a tawny owl drop a package into Neville’s outstretched hands, which he then fumbled, sending it bouncing along the table and into a pitcher of milk, which sprayed all over the poor boy. Harry and Ron sat across the table from him, laughing with the rest of the students as Neville pulled the soggy package out of the milk jug.

“I think I’ll be having the pumpkin juice today,” Harry jokes as Hedwig flutters down to land on his shoulder, holding out a letter from his father.

“It’s a Remembrall!” Neville exclaims excitedly. “Gran knows I forget things – this tells you if there’s something you’ve forgotten to do. Look, you hold it tight like this and if it turns red… oh…” As he squeezed the little glass ball, the billowing smoke inside turned a bright crimson.

“You’ve forgotten something,” Seamus finishes for him, and Neville nods glumly.

Malfoy walks over, followed by Crabbe and Goyle, entirely unwelcome, and grabs the little ball, sneering. Harry rises halfway out of his seat, but before any of them could say anything, Professor McGonagall was upon them, one eyebrow flying up into her hairline as she eyes the group.

“What’s going on?” she asks sternly.

“Malfoy’s got my Remembrall, Professor,” Neville answers, looking torn between trying to handle the situation themselves to avoid being a tattletale and desperately wanting a professor’s intervention.

“Just looking,” Malfoy mutters, dropping the little ball back onto the table; Dean barely manages to catch it before it hits the table.

The three Slytherins stalk off, Malfoy casting an oddly threatening glare over his shoulder at Harry, who narrows his eyes in response before returning to reading his letter.

Thursday arrives much faster than Harry thought it would, a warm, breezy day with plenty of sunshine and not too many clouds. The Gryffindors troop out across the great sloping lawn together toward an open area not too far from the Quidditch pitch, finding the Slytherins already gathered there with a hawk-like woman who could only be Madam Hooch.

“Well, what are you all waiting for?” she barks at them practically the minute the Gryffindor students arrive. “Everyone stand by a broomstick. Come on, hurry up.”

Harry selects a broomstick near the end, Ron to his left and Hermione Granger to his right, Neville past her.

“Stick your right hand over your broom and say, Up!” Madam Hooch commands, and the students hurry to obey.

“UP!” choruses around the lawn, two dozen voices all shouting the same.

Harry’s broomstick jumps into his hand after only a slight hesitation, as though it was deciding whether or not to listen to him, but as he looks around, he sees that almost none of the others are having as much luck. Hermione’s broomstick merely rolls over and Harry can practically feel her frustration as she fails at the task – finally something books can’t teach her. Ron’s sits resolutely still before jumping a little too exuberantly into his hands, so that his has to catch it somewhere around his head instead of his waist. Harry nearly keels over laughing when Malfoy’s broom tips up from the tail end, smacking him in the shoulder _hard_ with the handle when he gives the command. When, at long last, they have all got their broomsticks in hand, Madam Hooch gives them further instructions.

“Now, when I blow my whistle, you kick off from the ground, hard,” she tells them. “Keep your brooms steady, rise a few feet, and then come straight back down by leaning forward slightly. On my whistle – three, two –“

But Neville, who seems to have no control of his broomstick, already kicked off nervously, and is now floating higher and higher, unable to figure out how to get back to the ground.

“Come back, boy!” Madam Hooch cries, but it’s a useless command since the clumsy boy has no idea how to achieve the task. He tries to lean forward as she had instructed, but he greatly overestimates, and it tips so far forward that he falls right off the end, falling about twenty feet and hitting the ground with a large THUD. He lets out a cry on impact and holds his hand up, limp, cradling it close to his chest, and Madam Hooch comes closer to inspect it. “Broken wrist. Come on, boy – it’s alright, up you get,” she says, pulling Neville to his feet and steering him toward the castle. “None of you is to move while I take this boy to the hospital wing!” she calls over her shoulder at the remaining students. “You leave those brooms where they are or you’ll be out of Hogwarts before you can say Quidditch. Come on, dear.”

“Did you see his face, the great lump?” Malfoy sneers, and a few of the other Slytherins laugh with him.

“Shut up, Malfoy,” Parvati Patil says boldly, her cheeks flushing a little pink.

“Ooh, sticking up for Longbottom?” Pansy Parkinson shrieks with mirth. “Never thought you’d like fat little crybabies, Parvati.”

“Look! It’s that stupid thing Longbottom’s gran sent him,” Malfoy grins, holding up Neville’s remembrall with a mischievous look.

“Give that here, Malfoy,” Harry speaks up, stepping forward.

“I think I’ll leave it somewhere for Longbottom to find – how about, up a tree?” Malfoy laughs maliciously, reaching for his broomstick.

“Give it here!” Harry repeats.

“Come and get it, Potter!” Malfoy calls, pushing off hard from the ground and soaring high into the air. Harry, to his dismay, notes that Malfoy was not at all making things up when he boasted about being a good flier. Even so, he reaches for his own broomstick, mounting it and getting ready to push off when Hermione grabs the sleeve of his robe.

“No!” she squeals, horrified. “Madam Hooch told us not to move! You’ll get us all in trouble.” Harry shakes her off, soaring into the air anyway. He surprises himself with how easily it all seems to come back to him, and the rush of air on his skin feels amazing.

“Give it here, or I’ll knock you off that broom!” he shouts, sounding far more confident than he really feels.

“Oh, yeah?” Malfoy taunts, holding up the gleaming bauble.

“No Crabbe and Goyle up here to save your neck, Malfoy,” Harry points out, and Harry watches with satisfaction as the realization flickers across Malfoy’s face.

“Catch it if you can then!” he calls, and he throws the ball as far as he can.

Harry streaks past him, chasing the little glass ball. He’s closing in on it, but not fast enough – the castle wall is fast approaching, and Harry has to execute a tricky maneuver, flipping his broom up on its tip while pivoting so he is facing away from the wall and then letting it fall in an arc to the side, all while holding the glittering bauble he had caught just in time. The danger of crashing into the castle averted, Harry flies gracefully back to his classmates, alighting to cheers from the Gryffindors and hisses from the Slytherins.

“HARRY POTTER!” He turns at the sound of his name to see Professor McGonagall marching toward him, looking absolutely livid. “Never… In all my time at Hogwarts… how dare you… might’ve broken your neck –“ she splutters, seeming to have trouble getting the words out through her fury.

“It wasn’t his fault, Professor –“ Parvati hurries to explain, trying desperately to defend Harry.

“Be quiet, Miss Patil,” Professor McGonagall snaps, and Parvati shuts her mouth quickly.

“But Malfoy –“ Ron interrupts, but he is silenced too.

“That’s enough, Mr. Weasley. Potter, follow me, now,” she commands, turning sharply on her heel, and Harry follows, still holding the broomstick in one hand and the remembrall in the other, and he casts a miserable glance over his shoulder at his best friend.

Professor McGonagall leads him through a meandering maze of passages, and at first Harry assumes that she is either taking him to her own office or Professor Dumbledore’s so that they can expel him, but he soon finds himself, much to his confusion, standing outside the Charms classroom.

“Excuse me, Professor Flitwick,” McGonagall interrupts, poking her head in through the door, “could I borrow Wood for a moment?”

A tall, lanky boy with hair the color of a broomstick emerges from the classroom, the look on his face about as confused as Harry feels.

“Follow me, you two,” McGonagall instructs, ushering them down the hall and into an empty classroom. “In here. Out, Peeves!” The impish poltergeist that Harry tries very hard to avoid blows past them with a rude gesture. “Potter, this is Oliver Wood – Wood, I’ve found you a Seeker.”

Her tone is incredibly proud, and Harry and Oliver Wood both gape at her.

“Are you serious, Professor?” Wood asks, giving Harry an appraising look that makes him very uncomfortable.

“Absolutely,” McGonagall grins. “The boy’s a natural, I’ve never seen anything like it. He caught that thing in his hand after a fifty foot dive. Didn’t even scratch himself. Charlie Weasley couldn’t have done it.” Wood raises his eyebrow appreciatively, and turns to pay more attention to Harry.

“Ever seen a game of Quidditch, Potter?” he asks, and Harry nods, his stomach squirming unpleasantly. He had thought he was going to be punished, expected detentions or to be sent home, not to be made Seeker for the Gryffindor Quidditch team. He realizes the unpleasant feeling in his gut is nerves, and he tries to push it aside.

“Wood’s captain of the Gryffindor team,” Professor McGonagall explains, a tad unnecessarily.

“He’s just the build for a Seeker too – light, speedy –“ Wood says, eyes raking over Harry again, “we’ll have to get him a decent broom, Professor – a Nimbus Two Thousand or a Cleansweep Seven, I’d say.”

“I shall speak to Professor Dumbledore,” she whispers excitedly, “and see if we can’t bend the first year rule. Heaven knows, we need a better team than last year. Flattened in that last match by Slytherin, I couldn’t look Severus Snape in the face for weeks…” She turns to look at Harry, the stern deputy-headmistress look returning to her features. “I want to hear you’re training hard, Potter, or I may change my mind about punishing you.”

\---

“Seeker?” Ron gasps at dinner, even pausing as he brings his chicken wing up to his mouth. “But first years never – you must be the youngest house player in about –“

“A century,” Harry interrupts. “Wood told me. I start training next week. Only don’t tell anyone, Wood wants to keep it a secret.” He looks around to see if anyone else heard, but it appears that no one else was listening.

“Well done,” comes the sound of two synchronous voices, while four hands clap Harry on the back.

“Wood told us,” Fred explains. “We’re on the team too – Beaters.”

“I tell you, we’re going to win that Quidditch cup for sure this year,” George adds, sounding positively gleeful. “We haven’t won since Charlie left, but this year’s team is going to be brilliant. You must be good, Harry, Wood was almost skipping when he told us.”

Harry feels his stomach churn with nerves again as he nods.

“Anyway, we’ve got to go,” Fred states, a mischievous glint in his eye, “Lee Jordan reckons he’s found a new secret passageway out of the school.”

“Bet it’s that one behind the statue of Gregory the Smarmy that we found in our first week,” George replies, and the four of them grin.

“See you,” the twins chorus together as they walk away waving.

“Having a last meal, Potter?” Harry hears Draco Malfoy sneer from behind him. “When are you getting the train back to the Muggles?”

“You’re a lot braver now that you’re on the ground and you’ve got your little friends with you,” Harry observes, noting Crabbe and Goyle back in their standard positions on either side of him.

“I’d take you on anytime on my own,” Draco challenges. “Tonight, if you want. Wizard’s duel – wands only, no contact.”

“You’re on,” Harry answers, not particularly wanting to duel Malfoy, but not wanting to seem like a coward either.

“I’m his second, who’s yours?” Ron asks, casting a slightly wary glance at the two behemoths behind Malfoy.

“Crabbe,” Draco answers after taking a moment to consider his options. “Midnight alright? We’ll meet you in the trophy room; that’s always unlocked.” He doesn’t wait for a response before he turns on his heel and leaves the Great Hall, Crabbe and Goyle following behind like loyal pit bulls.

“Excuse me,” says a very bossy sounding voice.

“Can’t a person eat in peace in this place?” Ron groans loudly, clearly not caring if he’s heard.

“I couldn’t help overhearing what you and Malfoy were saying…” Hermione Granger continues, looking very disapproving.

“Bet you could,” Ron mutters, and Harry smiles, but Hermione doesn’t seem to notice as she bowls right on.

“…and you mustn’t go wandering around the school at night, think of the points you’ll lose Gryffindor if you’re caught, and you’re bound to be. It’s really very selfish of you.”

“And it’s really none of your business,” Ron replies, rather rudely, but both boys are beyond caring.

“Goodbye,” Harry says cheerfully, and the two of them stand up (Ron grabbing another chicken wing for the road) and leave, making their way back to the Common Room.

* * *

Some material borrowed from _Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone_ , pp 98 - 115


	9. Chapter 9

“This is so stupid,” Harry remarks bitterly to Ron as they sit playing chess and waiting for the time for their duel to come. “Nothing is going to happen, I suck at magic.”

“Well, maybe,” Ron replies, shrugging, which does not make Harry feel any better, “but so does Malfoy, so you’ll be fine.”

“So what, we just stand there trying to cast spells at each other while nothing happens?” Harry snorts. “Some fight.”

“One of you’ll probably get mad,” Ron answers, a cheery grin spreading across his freckly face, “and they you’ll probably deck the other. That’s when the real fight starts.”

“Oh yeah, and you’ll punch Crabbe in the face then, will you?” Harry challenges, though in truth he feels a little better.

“Bloody hell, mate, I haven’t got a death wish,” Ron laughs, incredulous. “That’s when I scarper and fetch Madam Pomfrey for you.”

“Who’s Madam Pomfrey?” Harry asks, the name sounding vaguely familiar.

“Resident healer,” Ron explains. “Fred and George have been sent to the hospital wing loads of times because of Quidditch and because, well, they’re Fred and George.”

Harry laughs lightly and Ron checks his watch, the Common Room having emptied out ages ago.

“Half past eleven, we’d better go,” Ron announces, and the two of them stand, turning toward the portrait hole.

“I can’t believe you’re going to do this, Harry,” comes Hermione Granger’s bossy voice from a chair they had mistakenly thought was unoccupied.

“You! Go back to bed!” Ron fumes, pointing toward the stairs to the girls’ dormitories, but it only makes Hermione turn on him, her hands planted firmly on her hips.

“I almost told your brother, Percy –“ she declares matter-of-factly, “he’s a Prefect, he’d put a stop to this.”

“Come on,” Harry says, grabbing Ron’s arm and pulling him toward the portrait hole before he starts a fight in the Common Room.

“Don’t you care about Gryffindor, do you only care about yourselves?” Hermione lectures, following them. “I don’t want Slytherin to win the House Cup, and you’ll lose all the points I got from Professor McGonagall for knowing about Switching Spells.”

“Go away,” Harry and Ron chorus together, speeding up as they walk out the portrait hole and into the corridor, but she keeps pace.

“Alright,” she replies, her nose high in the hair, “but I warned you, you just remember what I said when you’re on the train home tomorrow, you’re so –“ but she never says what they are, because she turns back to the portrait of the Fat Lady only to find it conspicuously missing one very important component – the Fat Lady herself. “Now what am I going to do?” Hermione wails, the thought of being out in the corridor after hours positively horrifying.

“That’s your problem,” Ron smirks. “We’ve got to go, we’re going to be late.”

“I’m coming with you,” Hermione says, puffing her chest out bravely after a moment’s deliberation.

“You are not,” Ron argues, and Harry just shakes his head, so far beyond caring at this point.

“Do you think I’m going to stand out here and wait for Filch to catch me?” Hermione counters. “If he finds all three of us I’ll tell him the truth, that I was trying to stop you, and you can back me up.”

Harry scoffs quietly, personally thinking that Filch was about as likely to care whether or not Hermione was trying to stop them as he was about whether the Tutshill Tornadoes were going to sign that new Seeker…

“You’ve got some nerve –“ Ron answers, his ears turning scarlet with anger and frustration.

“Shut up, both of you!” Harry cuts across the sound of their bickering. “I heard something.”

“Mrs Norris?” Ron asked in a whisper, but it was not Filch’s dreaded cat. It was Neville, sniffling pathetically in a quiet corner.

“Thank goodness you found me! I’ve been out here for hours,” he whines, and Harry can’t help but feel bad for the clumsy, forgetful boy. “I couldn’t remember the new password to get in to bed.”

“Keep your voice down, Neville,” Ron hisses, casting a glance around them as though expecting Mrs. Norris to turn up around the corner still. “The password’s ‘pig snout’ but it won’t help you now, the Fat Lady’s gone off somewhere.”

“How’s your arm?” Harry asks kindly, and Neville gives another sniff.

“Fine. Madam Pomfrey mended it in about a minute.”

“Good –“ Harry replies, distracted, “well, look, Neville, we’ve got to be somewhere, we’ll see you later –“

“Don’t leave me!” Neville wails again, and Harry desperately tries to shush him. “I don’t want to stay here alone, the Blood Baron’s been past twice already.”

“If either of you get us caught, I’ll never rest until I’ve learned that Curse of the Bogies Quirrell told us about, and used it on you,” Ron asserts, pointing viciously at Hermione and Neville.

The four first years tiptoe through the halls as quietly and quickly as possible, and Harry swears his heart is beating loud enough to be heard across the castle. They make it to the trophy room only two minutes past midnight, according to Harry’s watch, and find it completely empty, no Malfoy or Crabbe. They wait in silence, the only sound their breathing and pounding hearts.

“He’s late,” Ron says finally at quarter past, “maybe he’s chickened out.”

Somehow, Harry’s stomach seems to fill with lead, as he thinks it rather unlikely that Malfoy was too scared to come duel him. Just then, they hear a door open on the other side of the hall, and Harry’s fingers tense around his wand.

“Sniff around, my sweet, they might be lurking in a corner,” floats Filch’s gravelly voice from the far end of the dark chamber as he talks to his beloved cat. “They’re in here somewhere, probably hiding.”

“This way!” Harry mouths, gesturing to the door behind them. “RUN!”

They’re almost clear of the trophy room when Neville trips, toppling into a suit of armour and sending it crashing down on Harry. He can hear Filch’s wheezing delight as he closes in on them while he furiously tries to push the heavy armour off him. At the last, he succeeds, scrambling to his feet and taking off down the hallway, the other three close on his heels and Filch not far behind them. They reach a staircase and Harry sprints down one floor, losing all sense of direction. As he skids around a corner, he falls into a tapestry that isn’t a tapestry, and it gives way to reveal a secret passage that Harry collapses into. As Ron, who had been running right beside Harry, passes, Harry sticks his hand out and pulls him through, and the other two, having seen Harry and Ron disappear, redirect their steps to run right through the hidden entrance. They run down the sloping pathway before exiting onto another corridor of classrooms, and Harry pulls them into an unlocked one.

“I think we’ve lost him,” he whispers, his hands on his hip as he tries to catch his breath.

“I – told – you,” Hermione wheezes, hand over her heart as she clutches at a stitch in her chest. “I – _told_ – you.”

“We’ve got to get back to Gryffindor tower, quickly as possible,” Harry says by way of an answer, looking around the classroom for some hint of their location.

“Malfoy tricked you. You realize that, don’t you?” Hermione continues her speech. “He was never going to meet you – Filch knew someone was going to be in the trophy room, Malfoy must have tipped him off.”

“Let’s go,” Harry answers, ignoring her completely, though he realizes she’s probably right.

He peers out the classroom door, checking that the coast is clear, before leading his three classmates out and down the corridor. They only make it around two corners before they find themselves, much to their horror, facing a delighted Peeves, who looks like Christmas has come early, and he cackles with glee.

“Shut up, Peeves – please – you’ll get us thrown out,” Harry begs, his heart beating wildly out of control.

“Wandering around at midnight, Ickle Firsties? Tut, tut, tut. Naughty, naughty, you’ll get caughty,” Peeves sings, doing backflips in the air.

“Not if you don’t give us away, Peeves, please,” Harry pleads.

“Should tell Filch, I should. It’s for your own good, you know,” Peeves pretends to consider, tapping his finger on his chin.

“Get out of the way,” Ron says gruffly, attempting to shove Peeves aside, which is very much the wrong move.

“STUDENTS OUT OF BED!” Peeves shrieks as loud as possible. “STUDENTS OUT OF BED DOWN THE CHARMS CORRIDOR!”

Without hesitation, the four first years set off at a run, sprinting down the corridor and around corner after corner, until they find themselves at a dead end facing a locked door.

“This is it! We’re done for!” Ron exclaims dramatically. “This is the end!”

“Oh move over!” Hermione says, frustrated, and she elbows Ron sharply out of the way, whipping out her wand. “Alohamora!”

With a click, the door in front of them opens, and they hurry through, slamming it shut behind them. A moment later, they hear Filch come wheezing around the corner, and Harry peers through the keyhole to watch. Peeves floats impishly behind the old man, pelting him with a piece of chalk every now and then.

“Which way did they go, Peeves? Quick, tell me.” Filch commands, but Peeves blows a loud raspberry.

“Say ‘please’,” he mocks, and Harry sees Filch scowl.

“Don’t mess with me, Peeves, now where did they go?”

“Shan’t say nothing if you don’t say ‘please’,” Peeves replies in a sing-song voice, and Harry watches as Filch deliberates.

“Alright, please,” Filch says at last, huffing loudly.

“NOTHING!” Peeves bellows. “Ha haaa! Told you I wouldn’t say nothing if you didn’t say please!” He zooms away and they can hear his cackling all down the hall. “Ha ha! Haaaaaa!”

Filch swears loudly.

“He thinks this door is locked,” Harry whispers to the others, letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in. “I think we’ll be okay – get off, Neville!” Harry looks round as Neville continues to tug on Harry’s robes and Hermione gazes in horror at something behind him. “What?”

He turns slowly, and his heart falls into his stomach at the sight of a gigantic three headed dog snarling down at them.

“Right,” Harry swallows, trying to remain brave, “er, just don’t panic.”

“Don’t panic?” Ron repeats, his voice oddly shrill as Harry looks through the keyhole again.

He can’t see Filch anymore, but he’s also not sure the caretaker is gone, and he doesn’t want to run out and into Filch’s grasp. The large brown dog, growls, deep and low and threatening, and suddenly Harry no longer cares whether Filch is waiting to expel them on the other side, he flings the door open and runs, far faster than he had before, only turning back once to check that his classmates were following him and Hermione had shut the door once more. They skid to a halt outside the portrait of the Fat Lady, huffing heavily.

“Where on earth have you all been?” she asks in surprise.

“Never mind that –“ Harry pants, “pig snout, pig snout.”

She swings open to admit them and they tumble into the Common Room in a giant heap. One by one, they extract themselves from the pile, finally feeling better now that they were safely in Gryffindor Tower.

“What do they think they’re doing, keeping a think like that locked up in a school?” Ron blusters, somewhere between shock, fear, and anger. “If any dog needs exercise, that one does.”

“You don’t use your eyes, any of you, do you?” Hermione answers after a moment. “Didn’t you see what it was standing on?”

“The floor?” Ron replies, sounding both confused and incredulous. “I wasn’t looking at its feet, I was too busy with its heads.”

“No, not the floor,” Hermione states in the tone of someone who is exasperated by having to talk to someone much dumber than themselves. “It was standing on a trapdoor. It’s obviously guarding something.” She pauses for a moment to let the information sink in, and Harry and Ron exchange a look with each other while Neville whimpers softly. “I hope you’re pleased with yourselves. We could have been killed – or worse, expelled. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to bed.”

With that, Hermione stomps off up the stairs to the girls’ dormitory, and the three boys are left standing in the Common Room, looking very shocked.

“No, we don’t mind.” Ron answers, a bit late. “You’d think we dragged her along, wouldn’t you?”

Harry shakes his head in bewilderment, and the three of them trudge up to their own dormitory, where all three collapse on their beds, dreaming of horrific three-headed monsters and the treasure they guard.

* * *

Some content borrowed from _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone_ , pp 115-120

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So I think I’ve settled on there being 22 chapters for this story, just so you guys all know. I wanted to stick with the 17 that JK Rowling had to make it parallel, but there’s a few things I wanted to add, so now it looks like we’ll have 22. So yeah, whoohoo! Also, I’m hoping to do a lot of writing in the next few days because I would really like to have this piece finished by the time I move in a little under two weeks, which means writing about a chapter a day. I may not post it that quickly, but hopefully I’ll get the writing done. Also also, this piece is posted as an image because I really wanted to have the handwriting in a different font, so I’m hoping that works out alright. Let me know if there’s any trouble with it.

Dear Dad,

      Hogwarts is great so far, I really love it here. Lessons are pretty difficult, especially Transfiguration, and McGonagall is really strict. I wish she would go easier on us Gryffindors like Snape does with Slytherin. I still like her though, she’s a good teacher. And the Gryffindor common room is amazing! I had no idea it would be so cool. Our dormitory is on the third floor of the tower, so I guess that’d be the tenth floor of the castle? It’s hard to tell because all the staircases keep moving. I think I’m getting the hang of it though.

      That family that we met at Kings Cross? The Weasleys? They seem pretty wonderful. Ron’s my best friend now and he said one of his older brothers remembers you and Mum. It must have been a long time ago. He has five older brothers and a younger sister, and he hates it, but I think it must be wonderful. The other boys in my dormitory are pretty cool too. Neville Longbottom is a little clumsy and forgetful, but he’s a nice boy, he just needs a little extra help in lessons and stuff. Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan are best friends, just like me and Ron, so they’re pretty much inseparable, but they’re both really funny. Seamus has a habit of setting things on fire by accident, which is always a good laugh. There’s only three girls our year in Gryffindor. Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil are nice enough, but they’re both huge gossips. And then there’s Hermione Granger. Dad, you would not believe this girl. She’s the biggest know-it-all you’ve ever seen, always her sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong, and super bossy too. I don’t like her much, but Ron really doesn’t like her.

      She’s nowhere near as bad as Draco Malfoy though. I really hate that kid. He’s a stupid, slimy git, and he thinks that he’s better than everyone else because he’s pureblood, but I think that’s dumb. We’ve got a little bit of a rivalry going I guess. Only the other night he tried to get Ron and me in serious trouble because I stopped him from bullying Neville. It was alright though, we managed to get away just fine. He’s got these two cronies too, Crabbe and Goyle, and they’re dumb as trolls, but everyone’s intimidated by them because they’re so big and mean.

      Snape is pretty bad too, he’s the Potions master. He really seems to hate me for some reason, but I don’t know why. I asked Hagrid about it, but he just brushed it off and said that I was probably imagining it, only I don’t think I am. He took points off me because Neville messed up his Potion and I didn’t prevent him, only Neville wasn’t even my partner! And I get this funny tingling in my scar when he looks at me.

      Anyway, that’s all I have to tell so far. Say hi to Sirius and Remus for me!

Love you!

Harry

P.S. I made the Quidditch team! I’m the Seeker. Youngest player in a century.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In honor of Harry Potter/JK Rowling's birthday, I have a chapter update for you guys! This is a long one, with a fair bit of original content, so it was fun to write. I hope you enjoy! As always, I appreciate kudos/comments/reviews/messages/feedback in general. See you shortly for the next chapter (I hope)!

“It’s either really valuable or really dangerous,” Ron speculates for the umpteenth time as he and Harry make their way down to breakfast in the Great Hall before class.

“Or both,” Harry suggests, his curiosity at the mysterious hidden object tempering any boredom he might experience from having the same conversation over and over again. No matter how many times they went through it, he and Ron made no headway on the issue.

They plop down at the Gryffindor table, still conversing quietly about the three-headed dog, just in time for the mail delivery, not that either of them is expecting anything. Harry had sent a letter to his father the other day, but it would be surprising to hear back so quickly. Harry’s thoughts are interrupted when one of the school’s brown barn owls swoops low over his head, dropping a long, thin package on the table in front of him, sending the scrambled eggs, beans and sausage on his and Ron’s plates flying every which way (including all over their robes). With an apologetic look at Ron, Harry picks up the note attached to one end of the parcel before tucking it under the table and slips his finger under the edge, sliding the parchment open.

_DO NOT OPEN THE PARCEL AT THE TABLE._

_It contains your new Nimbus Two Thousand, but I don’t want everybody knowing you’ve got a broomstick or they’ll all want one. Oliver Wood will meet you tonight on the Quidditch field at seven o’clock for your first training session._

_Professor McGonagall_

Harry looks round at Ron in amazement. McGonagall had said she would looking into bending the rules so he could have his own broomstick now he was on the Quidditch team, but this – a Nimbus Two Thousand was far more than he had hoped for.

“A Nimbus Two Thousand!” Ron hisses excitedly. “I’ve never even touched one.”

Harry elbows him hard in the ribs, shaking his head almost imperceptibly and looking around at the other students.

“Come on, finish your breakfast,” he said quietly, tucking in to the remnants of his scrambled eggs. “We’ll have to go change before class.”

The two boys wolf down their breakfast, and they each grabbed a slice of toast to go (Ron grabbed three), and they hurry out of the Great Hall.

“That’s a broomstick,” they hear Malfoy’s drawl from behind them, and Harry and Ron spin around to face him. “You’ll be in for it this time, Potter, first years aren’t allowed them.”

“It’s not any old broomstick, it’s a Nimbus Two Thousand,” Ron bursts out before Harry can stop him. “What did you say you’ve got at home, Malfoy, a Comet Two Sixty? Comets look flashy, but they’re not in the same league as the Nimbus.”

“What would you know about it, Weasley, you couldn’t afford half the handle,” Malfoy spits, scowling. “I suppose you and your brothers have to save up twig by twig.”

“Not arguing, I hope, boys?” Professor Flitwick interrupts, just as Harry grabs the back of Ron’s robes to stop him from lunging at Draco.

“Potter’s been sent a broomstick, Professor,” Malfoy tattles hurriedly.

“Yes, yes, that’s right,” Professor Flitwick responds, and Harry has to try not to laugh at the look of dismay on Malfoy’s face. “Professor McGonagall told me all about the special circumstances, Potter. And what model is it?”

“A Nimbus Two Thousand, sir,” Harry answers with glee. “And it’s really thanks to Malfoy here that I’ve got it,” he adds, eyes glinting with delight at Malfoy’s horror.

“Ooh, that’ll do nicely,” Flitwick replies, clapping his hands a little. “Well, off you go boys, don’t want to be late for class.”

Malfoy stalks off into the Great Hall while Harry and Ron turn on their heals and run up to the Gryffindor Common Room, low on time after their little chat. They reach the dormitory and strip off their robes as fast as possible, pulling clean ones from their trunks.

“What was with that comment about the Nimbus being thanks to Malfoy?” Ron asks with a confused glance at Harry as he tugs a fresh sweater over his head, red hair sticking up at odd angles.

“Well it’s true,” Harry answers with a shrug as the two of them hurry back down to the Common Room, pulling their robes on as they walk. “If he hadn’t stolen Neville’s remembrall I wouldn’t be on the team…”

“So I suppose you think that’s a reward for breaking the rules?” a bossy voice drifts across the room, and both boys turn to see Hermione standing with her arms crossed, glaring at them.

“I thought you weren’t speaking to us?” Harry scoffs, feeling more than a little bit prickly toward Hermione at the moment.

“Yes, don’t stop now,” Ron adds tersely, “it’s doing us so much good.”

Hermione stalks straight past them, nose held high in the air as she walks through the portrait hole, and Harry and Ron follow a few paces back, eager to let her get far ahead of them, even if it meant being a minute or two late for class. Ron, personally, would much rather a detention from McGonagall than a long walk with Hermione.

“It’s a wonder she doesn’t walk into walls, with her nose so high in the air,” Ron says snarkily, and Harry laughs a little. He doesn’t much like Hermione either, but Ron seems to loathe her almost as much as Draco Malfoy, and Harry doesn’t think she’s quite _that_ bad, not that he would ever say it to Ron.

Classes pass unbearably slowly that day; time seems to have a nasty habit of slowing down when you want it to speed up. Transfiguration is as frustratingly challenging as usual, but History of Magic is the worst, with boring old Professor Binns droning on and on about things people stopped caring about centuries ago, if they ever had. At last, the final bell of the day chimes magically throughout the halls, and Harry and Ron nearly sprint down to dinner, eager to eat as quickly as possible and get down to the pitch for practice. When they’re done eating, the two boys race up to Gryffindor tower, where Harry exchanges his school uniform for a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt. They march down to the pitch together, chattering happily as Harry swings the Nimbus Two Thousand back and forth, adjusting his grip nervously and testing out the best way to hold it. When they arrive on the green field, Oliver Wood casts Ron a wary glance, but the Weasley name gives him enough clout that he nods toward the bleachers and Ron scurries off to have a seat with a huge grin at Harry.

“Right, everyone,” Oliver says importantly, standing as tall as he can, which is no small thing for the 6 foot 2 captain, “meet our new Seeker, Harry Potter.”

For the first time in his exposure to the wizarding world, Harry is eyed with sceptical looks, everyone seeming to think that this scrawny little eleven year old cannot possibly be good enough to warrant all the special attention he’s received.

“Harry, I’d like you to meet our Chasers, Angelina Johnson –“ he points to a tall girl, Harry would have guessed in her third or fourth year, with light brown skin, deep brown eyes, and long, braided brown hair – “Alicia Spinnet –“ a shorter, tough looking, more heavyset girl with deep brown skin, a round face, and brown hair pulled back in a pony tail waves to Harry and offers him a warm smile – “and Katie Bell –“ Oliver gestures to a shy looking girl with long blonde hair that Harry recognizes as a second-year, and she smiles timidly.

“Nice to meet you,” Harry whispers, his voice sounding much squeakier than he would like.

“And of course you know Fred and George Weasley, our Beaters,” Oliver continues, determined to get through his introductions as quickly as possible. The twins clap Harry on the back simultaneously, nearly sending him sprawling into the three Chasers. “And I’m Keeper, and you’re Seeker, so that’s all seven of us.”

They all look around, assessing one another, but mostly Harry, who is the newest member, and the wildcard as far as they were aware. Angelina and Alicia exchange highly sceptical looks, but turned their attention back to Oliver as he starts speaking again.

“Right, let’s see what we can do as a team. We’ll do a few flying manoeuvres to warm up, then we’ll start running drills, and hopefully we’ll get to some game simulation drills at the end. I want to see everyone give it their best – no slacking!” Harry glances around nervously, only to find that Katie Bell seems to feel just as intimidated as he does. “Oh, and Harry, there’s a set of practice and game robes in your locker, starting next practice, you’ll wear those, got it?”

“Yeah,” he replies, looking toward the locker Oliver indicated.

The seven players walk out together, mounting their brooms and kicking off into the air, circling the pitch in increasingly complicated ways as Oliver calls out different moves, his voice magically magnified. They practice a Hawkshead attacking formation, a Porskoff Ploy, Sloth Grip rolls, a Woollongong Shimmy, both the Chelmundiston Charge and a Dionysus Dive, and Fred and George attempt Bludger Backbeats and the very tricky Dopplebeater Defence. They run drills that mostly involve the others attempting various plays while Harry flies overhead, attempting to catch several charmed tennis balls. When it’s completely dark and none of them can see a thing anymore, Oliver declares the practice both finished and a success. Ron had gone back to the Common Room halfway through to work on his homework with a cheerful wave to Harry, so he returns with They walk back to Gryffindor Tower feeling very good about their prospects for the season, and Oliver repeats several times that he thinks this will be the year that they finally do it, that they finally win the Cup.

“You’re actually quite a good flier, you know,” Katie Bell says quietly to Harry, sounding as though she was unsure whether or not to speak to him.

“Thank you,” Harry answers her with a smile. “You’re a brilliant Chaser. I don’t think I’d be half as good as you.” She blushes rose colored with his compliment.

“I’m new to the team too,” she replies, warming up to him the more they talk. “It wasn’t my first practice, like for you, but I only started a week and a half ago.”

“You look like you’ve been playing with Angelina and Alicia for years.” Katie turns an even deeper shade of pink.

“Thanks,” she says as they arrive back in the Gryffindor Common Room, and Harry excuses himself to go sit with Ron and finish his homework, which was starting to pile up.

The next few weeks passed in a haze of intensely difficult classes, more and more challenging Quidditch practices, and homework that had Harry staying up later and later each night. It was becoming quite difficult to manage, and Harry woke on Halloween morning feeling thoroughly exhausted. As Ron raved in anticipation of that night’s feast at breakfast, Harry could only nod along sleepily. They make their way to that day’s lessons – Herbology in the morning, in which Harry receives a nasty prick from a Spiky Bush (which Professor Sprout dabs at with a premade ointment), and double Charms in the afternoon.

“Now, don’t forget that nice wrist movement we’ve been practicing! Swish and flick,” Professor Flitwick instructs, “remember, swish and flick. And saying the magic words properly is very important, too – never forget Wizard Baruffio,” he cautions, “who said ‘s’ instead of ‘f’ and found himself on the floor with a water buffalo on his chest.”

A chorus of attempted spells sounds throughout the room as the entire class attempts to levitate the feathers sitting on the desks in front of them.

“Wingardium Leviosa!” Ron exclaims, stabbing at the feather with his wand.

“You’re saying it wrong,” Hermione interrupts. “It’s Wing-gar-dium Levi-o-sa, make the ‘gar’ nice and long.”

“You do it, then, if you’re so clever,” he challenges.

“Wingardium Leviosa!” she says, and her feather floats up in the air obediently.

“Oh, well done!” Professor Flitwick exclaims. “Everyone see here, Miss Granger’s done it!”

Hermione plasters a smug look on her face as the class looks on, several students throwing her unpleasant looks that she either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care about. When the bell rings, Harry and Ron shove their wands back in their bags and take off, Ron muttering unhappily.

“It’s no wonder no one can stand her, she’s a nightmare, honestly,” he says loudly, and the two of them receive sharp blows to the shoulders as a particularly bushy-haired girl pushes her way in between them, racing off with her head bowed.

“I think she heard you,” Harry whispers, suddenly feeling very small.

“So? She must’ve noticed she’s got no friends,” Ron counters, and Harry hears Seamus and Dean snicker behind them.

They all make their way down to the Great Hall for the Halloween feast, well, almost all of them. Hermione Granger is nowhere to be seen and as the feast continues, she makes no appearance at the Gryffindor table. As Harry digs into a pumpkin pasty, he hears Lavender Brown mention to Parvati Patil that she had seen Hermione crying in the girls’ bathroom, and his stomach drops, losing all appetite. Instead, he watches as Ron, Seamus, Dean, and Neville enjoy the rest of the feast, loading their plates with mashed potatoes, and turkey, cranberry sauce and pumpkin pasties. When they think they’re as full as the possibly could be, the dinner dishes are cleared away, replaced with desserts. Just as Ron bites into a candied apple, a slight commotion fills the Hall, and Professor Quirrell bursts through the great double doors, running down the aisle between the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw tables.

“Troll…” he shouts without stammering, halfway up the aisle, “in the dungeons… thought you ought to know.”

Professor Quirrell sways on his feet for a moment before losing consciousness completely and falling to the side, crashing into the Ravenclaw table and sliding down to the floor.

“Prefects,” Dumbledore bellows in his commanding voice as he rises to his feet, “lead your houses back to their dormitories immediately!”

Chaos ensues as students scramble for the door, eager to make their way to safety, and the Prefects and Professors try to maintain some semblance of order.

“Follow me!” Percy hollers over the din, completely in his element. “Stick together, first years! No need to fear the troll if you follow my orders!” He begins backing toward the door, eyes scanning the crowd to make sure all his precious little responsibilities are doing as they’re told and following him. “Stay close behind me, now. Make way, first years coming through! Excuse me, I’m a Prefect!”

“How could a troll get in?” Harry asks Ron in a whisper as they climb the stairs out in the corridor.

“Don’t ask me,” Ron shrugs, “they’re supposed to be really stupid. Maybe Peeves let it in for a Halloween joke.”

“I’ve just thought –“ Harry stops suddenly, grabbing Ron’s arm and pulling him to a halt as well, and several students glare at them as they try to push their way past. “Hermione.”

“What about her?” Ron asks, clearly confused.

“She doesn’t know about the troll,” Harry explains, and a look of comprehension and horror clouds Ron’s face.

“Oh, all right,” he gives in after a moment’s deliberation. “But Percy better not see us.”

They both glance at Ron’s older brother, and duck down when he looks away, crouching along the ground as they move through the hallway until they can round a bend. The two boys run quickly through the halls, turn after turn, down staircases and up, making their way back toward the Entrance Hall so they can go to the dungeons. In a second floor corridor, they hear a noise, the sound of someone approaching.

“Percy!” Ron whispers in panic, pulling Harry back into the shadows of a suit of armour. It’s Snape, however, not Percy, who runs past the intersection, causing Harry to narrow his eyes in suspicion.

“What’s he doing?” Harry hissed to Ron. “Why isn’t he down in the dungeons with the rest of the teachers?”

“Search me,” Ron answered, pushing Harry forward to keep going.

“He’s heading for the third floor,” Harry says, a little to loudly, and Ron pushes him back against the wall, clapping a hand over his mouth. They wait for the sound of Snape’s footsteps to fade into silence before Ron releases his friend.

“Can you smell something?” he asks, looking at Harry in alarm, and Harry wrinkles his nose at the foul odour that had started to permeate the corridor.

“It smells like…”

“Troll,” Ron finishes, and they look around wildly.

Sure enough, they see a shadow lumbering across the floor in the intersection ahead of them, and seconds later a massive, hulking figure follows, grunting with every step. It walks straight into a room on the other side of the hall, a room with a very solid looking door…

“The key’s in the lock,” Ron points out. “We could lock it in.”

“Good idea,” Harry says, and they run over to the room, swiftly twisting the key in the lock and backing away.

“Yes!” they cry together with a high five.

Harry and Ron are just backing away, about ten feet down the hall, when a shrill scream emanates from the room with the troll.

“Oh, no,” Harry says, exchanging a dread filled look with Ron.

“It’s the girls’ bathroom!” the other boy confirms, sharing Harry’s dismay.

“Hermione!” Harry cries out, already taking off toward the girls’ bathroom, no plan formed in his mind beyond GET HER OUT OF THERE.

They burst through the door to find the troll, which was even more massive up close, towering over Hermione, crouched under the farthest sink, with its club raised over its head. She lets out another shriek and Harry turns to Ron, desperate to do something, anything, to help.

“Confuse it!” Harry shouts, and he manoeuvres himself into a better position to communicate with Hermione.

“Oy, pea brain!” Harry hears Ron yell, and he uses the opportunity to try to get Hermione’s attention.

“Come on, run, run!” he tells her, but she is resolutely crouched under the sink, staring up at the troll in horror.

Harry glances around the bathroom, forced to consider a new plan of action, but when the troll raises his club to swing at Ron, who had thrown a piece of dislodged sink at it, Harry panics, and runs at it, thrusting his wand forward to cast a spell that never comes to mind, and it catches on the troll’s nostril, implanting itself deep into its nose. Angered, the troll grabs Harry with one massive hand and slams him into the wall, knocking the wind out of him.

“Wingardium Leviosa!” Harry hears Ron yell as he splutters and gasps for air, desperate to get some oxygen to his brain. He barely sees as the troll’s club rises higher and higher into the air before falling with a _thump_ onto it’s head, knocking it out and sending the troll sprawling backwards onto the floor, and Harry with it.

“Is it… dead?” Hermione asks timidly from the corner.

“I don’t think so, I think it’s just been knocked out,” Harry replies as he crawls out from the troll’s hand and over to its head, extracting his wand from its nose. “Urgh, troll bogeys.”

Just as Harry stands and looks around, taking in the situation, the door to the bathroom bursts open, and in charge half a dozen staff members, McGonagall in the lead. She gapes at the three of them as she gazes around the room, from Hermione, who was in the process of crawling out from under the sink, to Harry, who was wiping his wand on his robes, to Ron, who had caught the troll’s club and was holding it as far away from him as possible with a look of disgust on his face, to the troll, lying completely unconscious on the floor.

“What on earth were you thinking of?” she finally manages to burst out, sounding torn between scolding them and being impressed. “You’re lucky you weren’t killed. Why aren’t you in your dormitory?”

“Please, Professor McGonagall, they were looking for me,” Hermione says in a small voice.

“Miss Granger!” she replies, thoroughly shocked.

“I went looking for the troll because I… I thought I could deal with it on my own… you know, because I’ve read all about them,” Hermione lies easily, to Harry and Ron’s surprise. “If they hadn’t found me, I’d be dead now. Harry stuck his wand up its nose and Ron knocked it out with its own club. They didn’t have time to come fetch anyone. It was about to finish me off when they arrived.”

“Well… in that case…” Professor McGonagall looks torn again, her favourite student the source of such ludicrous action. “Miss Granger, you foolish girl, how could you think of tackling a mountain troll on your own?”

Hermione has the good sense, or perhaps it is a genuine feeling, to look deeply ashamed, her head falling as she studies her shoes intently.

“Miss Granger, five points will be taken from Gryffindor for this. I’m very disappointed in you. If you’re not hurt at all, you’d better get off to Gryffindor tower. Students are finishing the feast in their houses.”

“Yes Professor McGonagall,” Hermione answers obediently, and she walks out of the room without a backward glance, her eyes still trained on the floor.

Once she’s gone, Professor McGonagall turns her attention to Harry and Ron, who were both still standing in the same position, unable to believe Hermione’s admission.

“Well, I still say you were lucky, but not many first years could have taken on a full-grown mountain troll,” McGonagall admits. “You each win Gryffindor five points. Professor Dumbledore will be informed of this. You may go.”

They hurry from the room as quickly as possible, eager to get away from the troll (and the troll stench) and practically run back to Gryffindor Tower.

“We should have gotten more than ten points,” Ron sulks as they near the portrait of the Fat Lady.

“Five, you mean,” Harry corrects him, “once she’s taken off Hermione’s.”

“Good of her to get us out of trouble like that,” Ron says, adding, “Mind you, we did save her.”

“She might not have needed saving if we hadn’t locked the thing in with her,” Harry points out, and Ron’s ears turn a light pink.

“Pig snout,” they say in unison to the Fat Lady, and she swings forward to allow them into the Common Room.

Hermione stands in a far corner of the room, waiting anxiously for the two boys to return, and when they see her, they walk over awkwardly.

“Thanks,” all three of them burst out suddenly after a few moments of rather uncomfortable silence, and Hermione lets out a small nervous laugh.

Harry smiles at her and even Ron seems to deflate a bit, and the three of them sit down at a nearby table together. They don’t talk about what happened, just pull out their textbooks and set to work on their homework, Hermione offering her help and Ron providing the occasional sarcastic comment to lighten the mood. It becomes a habit for them, to return to the Common Room after dinner, sit at what becomes their table, and finish their homework together. It’s an odd start to a friendship, perhaps, but it works for them, and Harry and Ron quickly embrace Hermione, bossiness and all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some material borrowed from Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone pp ...


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In celebration of being fully and officially moved in to my new townhouse and starting grad school tomorrow, I give you a new, albeit short chapter. I would also like to thank everyone who sent me super kind and understanding messages while my aunt was sick. Long story short, she’s still very unwell, but at least seems to be stable for the moment, so life goes on I suppose. Anyway, enjoy the chapter, and hopefully I’ll have another one soon enough.  
> Also to clarify who's speaking when, James is bold, Sirius is italic, and Remus is underlined.

**HARRY JAMES POTTER**

**WHAT ON EARTH WERE YOU THINKING, GOING AFTER A FULL GROWN MOUNTAIN TROLL?! Oh yes, Professor McGonagall told me, she sent a letter home immediately. How could you be so foolish? You and Ron are beyond lucky to have survived an encounter like that. I’m glad to hear that you’re making friends, but if fighting trolls is the way you’re doing it, I can’t say I approve of your methods. If I hear that you’ve done anything similarly idiotic, I will bring you straight home, Harry, am I understood?**

_Harry, don’t listen to your father, I think that was beautifully brave, true Gryffindor you are, kid. I’m very proud of you, and your dad is too, if he could remove the fatherhood stick from up his –_

Sirius! Don’t encourage him! That was a very reckless thing he did, with no proper training and no knowledge of trolls. He could have been seriously hurt!

_He’s fine, though, Remus, isn’t he?_

That’s not the point.

**Both of you, stuff it! Harry, I want you to promise to be more careful, okay?**

_Promise no such thing, Harry!_

**Sirius, I said shut it!**

**As for Professor Snape –**

_Or Snivellus, as we like call him._

Sirius, don’t, you’ll give him ideas. He can’t disrespect a teacher!

**Ahem! As for Professor Snape, don’t worry about it too much. He and I didn’t like each other much at school and he’s probably just taking his grudge out on you. I’ll talk to Professor Dumbledore and ask him to keep an eye (and ear) open in case things get worse. And of course, you know you can always go talk to him on your own if things get bad, of course he’ll always be willing to help you out.**

_Or just send me a letter and I’ll hex his brains out for you, Harry ;)_

Could you be an adult for once in your life, please, Sirius?

_Nah, what fun would that be?_

**I can’t help you much with the Malfoy kid, though, he sounds very unpleasant. My advice is to –**

_Hex his brains out._

**Sirius…**

_No, really, I have some experience with the Malfoy family, and they’re all nutters. Nasty pure blood family who thinks they own the world. Supported You-Know-Who during the First War too, although they’re barely older than us. Best to hex him._

Or just avoid him as best you can.

_Yes, that, if you insist on being reasonable, Remus._

**As for the Granger girl, she sounds quite a bit like your mother when she was your age. Give her a chance to show you how wonderful she can be, I’m sure there’s more too her than just a know it all. In time, I’m sure she’ll prove herself to be a good friend, or at the least, a helpful classmate. Just think how much you can learn from her!**

_Damn useful when exams come around, let me tell you._

**Just give it some time, Harry, you’ll see.**

**We’re all very proud of you for making the Quidditch team, Harry, that’s fantastic!**

_Yeah, we can’t wait to come see your game!_

Sirius, that was supposed to be a surprise!

_Oh, damn._

**It’s not a definite yet, Harry, we still have to get special permission from Professor Dumbledore to be on school grounds during a time not allotted for visitations, but we are hopeful.**

**We love you, Harry. No more fighting trolls.**

**Dad**

_(and Sirius)_

(and Remus)


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aha! An update! Finally!  
> Two things to note here. First of all, I’m well aware that the tense shifts from present to past tense in this chapter. I have no idea why I ever started writing in the present, as it’s incredibly difficult and unnatural, and I simply don’t have the time or energy to fight the instinct to write in the past tense anymore. At some point, I’ll go back and edit the beginning so that it matches, but I don’t have time right this second.  
> Second, I’ve received some feedback that people want more original content, and I totally get that. In the beginning, I felt like it was necessary for the story to get a few things set up, and that the best way to do that was to stick largely to the book. From this point on, I’m hoping that I’ll be able to diverge from JKR’s brilliance more and more, to include more of my original writing. That being said, I don’t promise 100% original content, I’m sure I’m still going to borrow bits and pieces here and there, but I feel like the story is at a point now where I can start to pull away from the books more.  
> So that’s all the announcements I’ve got right now. I apologize for the extended periods of time between chapters, but grad school is exceeding time consuming. I promise to write as much as I can though, and to try my best to update as often as possible. I always always always love getting feedback, both positive or negative (as long as you’re polite about it), in any form you feel comfortable (comments/PMs/likes/reblogs/whatever). Thank you all so much for continuing to read and for your patience! Enjoy! Gen

Harry woke early the morning of the first Quidditch match, his nerves causing his stomach to tingle unpleasantly, as though an electric eel were squirming about inside. He pulled the curtains of his four-poster back to see bright sunshine streaming through the windows and the other four boys still sleeping soundly. He pulled clothes from his dresser as quietly as possible, dressing in near silence and sneaking out of the room as soon as he was clothed. He found no one in the common room yet, although he could hear the sound of stirrings in the dormitories as Gryffindors began to wake, excited for the day’s match.

Harry hurried through the portrait hole and made his way through the castle to the owlery, where he stood gazing out over the grounds. Hedwig flew over and perched on the ledge next to his hand, and he began to stroke her head absentmindedly. He hadn’t gotten another letter from his father telling him whether or not he and Sirius and Remus would be at the game, and he honestly couldn’t decide what he would prefer. He very much wanted to see them, as he missed them very much, and writing letters back and forth was just not the same. Harry missed playing absurd games with Sirius while Remus looked on sternly, always torn between wanting to let Harry have fun and wanting to keep him safe. He misses waking up in the morning and joining the three of them at the table for café au lait, Remus handing him a page of the newspaper without looking, and Sirius exchanging it for the comics when Remus isn’t looking. He misses hugging his father before he goes to bed at night, the occasional look of surprise on James’ face that his son isn’t too old for such things yet. And yet, at the same time, Harry was so nervous, and having his family there to watch him only adds to the pressure of being the youngest seeker in a century. He wasn’t sure he could live up to all that was expected of him in that match.

After a while, Harry checked his watch, and saw that it was later than he thought, having spent almost an hour ruminating in the owlery. He darted down the steps and through the corridors, practically flying as he made his way to the Great Hall. And then – SMACK – he ran head first into perhaps the worst possible person, Professor Snape. They both fell to the floor, and Snape scowled at Harry.

“Watch where you’re going, Potter!” he spat, struggling disentangle himself and stand. In doing so, his robes lifted slightly, just enough for Harry to see several large and bloody cuts on Snape’s shin. He eyed them curiously, but Snape saw him and yanked his robes into proper placement immediately. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?” he sneered, black eyes glinting maliciously, and Harry scrambled to his feet, hurrying off with a mumbled “Sorry, Professor.”

Harry slid into the seat beside Ron still breathing hard from running through the castle.

“What’s the matter with you?” Ron asked through a mouthful of scrambled eggs, and out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Hermione give him a look of disgust.

“Just – ran into – Snape,” Harry told them between breaths.

“Oh dear,” Hermione fretted, “he hasn’t given you a detention, has he?”

“No,” Harry said, taking a large gulp of water and breathing more normally. “No, he didn’t, but I’d say I was a bit lucky. Only get this – he had a bunch of injuries on his leg, like something bit him and…” He trailed off, eyes widening as he made the connection.

“And what?” Ron prompted, shoving a sausage into his mouth.

“And we were right near the forbidden corridor where the three-headed dog’s locked up!” Harry exclaimed, his blood pounding. “He must be trying to get past it to steal whatever it’s guarding! That’s where he was going on Halloween!”

“Harry, that’s quite a leap,” Hermione said, sounding very unsure, but Ron nodded along enthusiastically.

“Really, Hermione, it’s not that much of a stretch,” Ron chimed in. “Besides, he’s a big enough git to do something like that.”

“But –“ Hermione started, but Ron ignored her.

“What do you think it’s guarding though?” Ron asked, dropping his voice to a whisper, and Harry shook his head.

“I’ve no idea,” he answered truthfully, the same reply he’d been giving every time they discussed the topic.

Just then Oliver Wood tapped Harry on the shoulder, making him jump.

“I want the team in the locker rooms and dressed in fifteen minutes,” Oliver said solemnly, and Harry nodded. Wood walked off to tell the others.

“I’d better get going,” Harry said, grabbing a piece of toast as he stood up, grateful that something had distracted him enough for his nerves to calm down a bit.

Harry rushed off to the changing rooms, finding most of the team already present and pulling on their uniforms when he got there. He glanced around and saw, hanging in the large wooden nook where his practice robes usually hung, a deep scarlet robe with “POTTER” emblazoned across the back in gold letters above a large number seven. Folded on the bench beneath it where a pair of black pants with a gold and red stripe down each side, and a scarlet and gold shirt with the Gryffindor crest on the back and a small seven written with his name on the chest. Harry eyed them in awe – he had never seen such nice Quidditch uniforms, and he picked them up, impressed with quality.  As he pulled the robes on, his excitement grew, and he couldn’t help but feel a little bit proud to be on the team, even if they had yet to actually play. He sat on the bench and pulled on his socks (gold with a red band across the top) just as Oliver entered, staring at them each in turn and looking very serious.

“Okay, men,” he started.

“And women,” Angelina corrected, crossing her arms.

“And women,” Oliver amended with a nod. “This is it. The big one, the one we’ve all been waiting for.” Harry glanced over at Fred and George who were sniggering.

“We know Oliver’s speech by heart,” George said. “We were on the team last year.”

“Shut up, you two,” Wood commanded, his cheeks turning noticeably pink. “This is the best team Gryffindor’s had in years. We’re going to win. I know it.”

Cheers echoed throughout the changing room as the other six players ‘hoorah’-ed their agreement.

“Right then, you know the plan. Let’s go make Slytherin sorry they ever picked up broomsticks!”

Another chorus of cheers filled the room and they gave each other high fives as they proceeded out onto the pitch. The sun was nearly blinding for a moment as they stepped out, and Harry blinked as he looked around him, surprised as his eyes began to adjust and he was able to see clearly. The stadium was packed, filled with students who began screaming the moment the team came into view. A large portion of the stadium was in solid red where the Gryffindors and the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs who were supporting them stood, waving little red and gold flags. The Gryffindor first years had surprised Harry by making a “Potter for President” banner, with a prancing lion (which he later found out was enchanted to roar every time Gryffindor scored thanks to Hermione) of Dean’s creation. Harry scanned the crowd, looking for his family in the sea of red, but it was nearly impossible to tell anyone apart from so far away.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the Gryffindor Quidditch team!” a voice boomed through the stadium, eliciting an uproar from the red-clad fans. Harry glanced up at the tall commentator’s tower and saw the unmistakeable dreadlocks of Lee Jordan, one of Fred and George’s friends, seated next to Professor McGonagall, who was wearing a red and gold tartan robe and a very uncharacteristic smile. A few moments later, Lee announced the arrival of the Slytherin team, this time greeted by loud booing that the [much fewer in number] Slytherin fans were unable to drown out.

“Your referee of the day, Madam Rolanda Hooch!” Lee shouted, and there was respectful applause as Madam Hooch entered the pitch carrying a large crate containing the four game balls. She set it down right in the centre of the pitch, and motioned for both teams to approach her.

“Now, I want a nice fair game, all of you,” she said as Wood and the Slytherin captain, a troll-looking bloke by the name of Marcus Flint, shook hands. Harry didn’t think he was imagining that she seemed to give Flint an extra stern stare as she said the words. “Mount your brooms, please.”

All fourteen players and Madam Hooch readied themselves, and she opened the crate with a flick of her wand. Another flick sent the quaffle soaring into the air, at which point she blew the whistle hard. The fourteen players kicked off the ground, speeding into the air, and Harry soared higher and higher, stopping to see what was happening only when he was considerably higher than the rest. Madam Hooch had released the bludgers and snitch, before joining the players in the air, and Harry had to duck quickly as one of the bludgers came hurtling toward him. He was slightly distracted, in the beginning, scanning the crowd in search of his father.

“And the quaffle is taken immediately by Angelina Johnson of Gryffindor,” Harry heard Lee announce, “– what an excellent Chaser that girl is, and rather attractive too…”

“JORDAN!” Professor McGonagall bellowed, and Harry heard the crowd titter in amusement.

“Sorry, Professor,” he hastened before returning to the match commentary. “And she’s really belting along up there, a neat pass to Alicia Spinnet, a good find of Oliver Wood’s, last year only a reserve – back to Johnsonand – urgh, no, the Slytherins have taken the quaffle, Slytherin Captain and part-troll Marcus Flint gains the quaffle and off he goes -- -- he's going to sc- no, stopped by an excellent move by positively fabulous Gryffindor keeper Wood and the Gryffindors take the quaffle -- that's chaser Katie Bell of Gryffindor there, nice dive around Flint, ha, take that, off up the field and -- OUCH -- that must have hurt, hit in the back of the head by a bludger, poor thing, she seems so nice too -- quaffle taken by the Slytherins -- that's Adrian Pucey speeding off toward the goal posts, but he's blocked by a second bludger -- sent his way by Fred or George Weasley, can't tell which, never can, not that it matters much really -- nice play by the Gryffindor beater, whichever one it was, anyway, and Johnson is back in possession of the quaffle, a clear path ahead and off she goes – would you look at her, she's really flying – nicely dodges a speeding bludger -- the goal posts are just ahead -- come on, now, Angelina -- keeper Bletchley dives -- misses -- GRYFFINDOR SCORE!"

Harry felt his stomach soar and he did a little loop-the-loop to celebrate, and that’s when something caught his eye. A very large, very hairy, someone was pushing their way through the mass of Gryffindor supporters, trailed by three smaller people. Harry recognized Hagrid immediately and had a pretty good feeling about who the other three were, his spirits lifting as the last bit of nerves left him. He smiled to himself as he turned his attention to looking for the snitch, determined to win and make everyone proud.

~ ~ ~

“Budge up there, move along,” Hagrid grumbled, pushing students aside as he made his way through the crowd. “Yeh gotta have good seats!” he called back to James, who was following right behind him.

Sirius kept stopping to yell out insulting things every time a Slytherin player flew even remotely close to them, and it was with great difficulty that Remus was able to push him forward and keep their little group together.

“Hagrid!” Hermione called out, waving to the gamekeeper enthusiastically, and he halted behind her and Ron, careful to stay at the back so he didn’t block anyone’s view.

‘Bin watchin’ wit’ these three up in the professors’ stands,” Hagrid told her. “But it isn’t the same as bein’ wit’ the students an’ I told James he had to have the best seats to watch Harry.”

“Hello, Mr. Potter,” Hermione said politely, leaning around Hagrid and extending her hand to James. “I’m Hermione Granger, I’m –“

“Ah yes, hello Hermione, Harry’s told us a great deal about you,” James answered, shaking her hand with a smile. Hermione’s cheeks flushed bright red.

“Remus Lupin,” offered Remus, extending his hand to Hermione and nudging Sirius to take his eyes off the game unsuccessfully. “And this charming fellow is Sirius Black.” Sirius gave a preoccupied wave without once taking his eyes off the players.

“You must be Ron,” James added, turning to the red-haired boy next to Hermione, who nodded enthusiastically.

“It’s really nice to meet you, Mr. Potter, my older brothers’ve told me about you, they said they’ve met you before,” Ron sputtered, a little overcome with excitement.

“Your brothers, that’d be Bill and Charlie, right? God, they must be much older now,” James signed, running a hand through his hair haphazardly.

“Yeah, Percy too. Bill and Charlie are the oldest though, they’ve already left Hogwarts.” Ron’s face looked as though he couldn’t believe he was still talking, thoroughly embarrassed by himself and turning a deeper shade of red by the second.

“Mr. Black, were you ever on the Quidditch team?” Hermione asked, jumping in to stop Ron, who gave her a grateful smile. Sirius flinched visibly.

“Please, don’t call me that, Sirius is fine,” he said quietly. “And yes, though only in my sixth and seventh years. I played beater alongside a boy named Davey Gudgeon, though he was the year beneath us.” He offered her a charming smile. “I wasn’t nearly as brilliant as James though. I’m sorry to say though, mate, I think your son might be better than you,” he said, grinning as he clapped James on the back.

James laughed heartily and turned his attention back to the game, just in time to see a bludger go speeding toward Harry. Fred, or perhaps George, slid in front of him and swung the heavy beater’s bat sending the bludged soaring toward one of the Slytherin players as though it were the easiest thing in the world.

~ ~ ~

“All right there, Harry?” he asked, turning with a grin to the seeker as the Gryffindor fans cheered.

“Yeah, I’m fine, thanks,” Harry returned, and then a small glint caught his eye. It was there, by the Slytherin goalposts, an impossibly small, shimmering gold ball, floating just between the rightmost hoop. Harry flew cautiously in that direction, not wanting to tip off the Slytherin seeker, all the while keeping his eyes firmly planted on the glimmer of gold.

“Slytherin in possession. Chaser Pucey unfortunately ducks two bludgers, two Weasleys, and Chaser Bell, and speeds toward the -- wait a moment -- was that the snitch?” Lee gasped as Harry suddenly sped toward the goal, confident that he had enough of a head start against the Slytherin seeker.

A bludger whooshed past him, mere inches from Harry’s nose and close enough that the wind ruffled Harry’s hair. The crowd lost it – Gryffindor fans were livid and even Harry could hear Sirius hurling insults at the Slytherin beaters.

“So, after that obvious and disgusting bit of cheating –“ Lee started, but McGonagall interrupted.

“Jordan!” she hissed, giving him a reproachful look.

“I mean, after that blatantly revolting foul –“ he amended.

“Jordan, I’m warning you…” McGonagall glared, sounding very harassed.

“All right, all right,” Jordan gave up, throwing his hands in the air. “Slytherin makes a nice attempt at murdering the Gryffindor seeker, which could happen to anyone, really, so Gryffindor receive a penalty, taken by Alicia Spinnet, who puts it away, no trouble, and we continue the game with Gryffindor still in possession and hopefully not the subject of any more vicious –“

“JORDAN!”

Harry flew back to his spot above the others, feeling a little shaken but even more determined to catch the snitch now. He cast his eyes around the pitch, systematically checking every area for any sign of it to no avail. And then suddenly, something happened. His broom started vibrating, as though it were pulsing with electricity, and it began jerking uncontrollably. Harry found himself lurching side to side as his broomstick took on a life of its own, bucking as though to throw him off.

“Dirty scum, I mean Slytherin in possession,” Lee continued, oblivious to Harry’s struggle. “Flint with the Quaffle -- passes Spinnet -- passes Bell – OOH and he’s hit hard in the face by a bludger, well done Weasley, hope it broke his nose -- only joking, Professor – that’ll be a penalty too, hardly fair in my opinion, he had it coming to him. Slytherins score, but they still trail Gryffindor…”

 ~ ~ ~

“Dunno what Harry’s doin’,” Hagrid said suddenly, causing James, Sirius, Remus, Ron, and Hermione all to look up at Harry immediately.

"If I didn't know better, I'd say he'd lost control of his broom,” Sirius mused, a hint of concern colouring his voice.

“But he can't have,” Remus interjected. “He’s a brilliant flier, and besides it looks more like…” His voice grew quiet as he trailed off.

“More like someone’s jinxing him,” James finished grimly, his hands grasping the railing so tightly the knuckles were turning white.

“Did something happen to it when Flint blocked him?” Hermione inquired, her eyebrows knitting together with worry.

“Can’t have. Nothing can interfere with a broomstick, especially a Nimbus, except powerful Dark magic -- no kid could do that,” Remus answered, sounding serious.

Hermione snatched the binoculars from Ron’s hands.

“Oi, what was that for?” he yelped, shaking out his wrist where the strap had tugged on it, but Hermione ignored him.

“I knew it,” she hissed, low enough for only Ron to hear. “Its Snape, look!”

“He’s mouthing something, Hermione, he’s got to be the one doing it,” Ron whispered back, frantic. “What should we do?”

“Leave it to me,” she said quietly, turning away, but Ron grabbed her arm.

“Hermione, what are you going to do?”

“I’m not sure yet,” she answered, biting her lip, “but I’ll think of something.”

“I’m coming with you then,” Ron replied, and Hermione opened her mouth to argue, but he fixed her with a very firm stare.

“Alright, fine then,” she huffed, fully aware that they didn’t have time to squabble over this issue.

The two of them pushed their way through the crowd, ignoring the grumbling students that they shunted aside in their haste. Within minutes, they had made it to the teachers’ tower where Snape sat, but they were quickly running out of time. Harry had slipped sideways off his broom, holding on with two hands, one of which slipped off as Ron and Hermione climbed the stairs of the tower.

The game had stopped for the most part, everyone paying attention to Harry’s precarious situation. Fred and George had tried to help him, but their efforts to get close caused the broom to buck even more violently and rise higher, so they hovered beneath him instead, ready to catch him if need be. Slytherin had taken the quaffle from the Gryffindor chasers, who were barely paying attention, and managed to score three goals.

Ron led Hermione through a curtain near the top of the tower, so they were underneath the benches, staring at the feet of their professors.

“Now what?” Ron hissed.

“I’ve got an idea,” Hermione whispered back, pulling her wand from her pocket. “ _Aculio_ ,” she said, pointing her wand at Snape’s ankle, and they saw him twitch uncomfortably as the spell sent a sensation like a horrific bee sting through Snape’s ankle, but it was not enough.

“Come on, Hermione…” Ron whispered urgently.

“ _Aculio_ ,” she whispered again, this time flicking her wand at the delicate skin behind Snape’s knee, and he gave such a start the he stood up, swatting at his robes in alarm and knocking several of his neighbours over in the process.

~ ~ ~

The distraction was all Harry needed, swinging his body up and back onto the broomstick to a cacophony of cheers from the Gryffindor supporters. He sped off as quickly as possible to shake off the effects of the situation, and the wind on his face was all he needed to get his mind in order. He flew in a circle round the pitch and then soared higher over the rest of the players, who had resumed their battle, playing even dirtier than before. Harry was quite desperate to catch the snitch as quickly as possibly, not wanting to risk his broomstick trying to throw him off again.

Gryffindor scored five more times, and Slytherin once, making the score even, while Harry soared around the pitch, eyes scouring the field for any sign of the pitch. And then, just when he was starting to grow beyond frustrated, he spotted a glint of gold, flitting back and forth near the ground in the centre of the pitch. Harry dove quickly, flattening himself against the handle of the broomstick in an attempt to move faster. He whizzed between Flint and Angelina, who were racing toward the Gryffindor goalpost, and stretched out his hand, fingers taut as he reached for the snitch, and then just as he was almost close enough to touch it, it jerked away from his hand, so quickly he didn’t have time to react, and darted straight into his open mouth. Harry coughed and spluttered and spit the snitch out, catching the (now somewhat slick) golden ball in his hand and holding it high, relief and excitement flooding his mind.

“Is that -?” Lee Jordan started, catching sight of Harry’s raised fist. “Harry Potter’s caught the snitch! Gryffindor win!” The Gryffindor section of the stands erupted, the mass of red and gold clad supporters jumping up and down with glee. “That’s just fantastic,” Lee laughed, “take that Flint, you dirty, cheating flea-infested sack of –“

At that particular moment, Professor McGonagall felt it was necessary to reverse Lee’s _sonorous_ charm, and his voice could no longer be heard. Harry alit on the ground next to his teammates, who pulled him into a bone-crushing hug. Oliver, in particular, seemed especially pleased with the results, although one thing nagged at him.

“What happened with your broom there, Harry?” he asked as he began leading the other six back toward the changing room.

“No idea,” Harry answered truthfully, shrugging, as the last few minutes had driven all thought of the incident from his mind. “Lucky it stopped though, I suppose.”

“It couldn’t have just stopped,” Oliver insisted, his eyebrows knitting together. “Something like that – that’s powerful dark magic, Harry, someone had to be interfering.”

Harry considered the thought for a moment, trying to figure out who might want to kill him. Draco Malfoy was the obvious choice, but there was no way he had the skill to tamper with a broomstick, especially while it was in flight. Harry felt a brief flicker of fear as the idea that it could somehow have been Voldemort occurred to him, but then he reminded himself that Voldemort was very much gone, and couldn’t be responsible. He continued to consider the topic for the remainder of the walk, until he was shaken out of his reverie by a number of excited spectators standing out in front of the door to the changing room.

“Dad!” Harry exclaimed, and he rushed forward.

“That was a brilliant game,” James answered as he hugged his son, more excited to see him than he could put into words.

“Oi, what are we, chopped liver?” Sirius interrupted, and Harry moved to give him and Remus hugs as well.

“Really, Harry, you were spectacular,” Remus told him, “I can see why they chose you.”

“Thanks,” Harry answered, smiling broadly.

“But what happened when you were flying?” Sirius questioned, but Harry didn’t have a chance to respond.

“Harry!” Hermione called, running over to them with Ron following just behind her. “Harry, are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he answered.

“Harry, you won’t believe it, mate, it was Snape! Hermione and I saw him!” Ron added, and Harry grimaced in response.

“Of course it was Snape,” Harry spat out bitterly. “The only other person who hates me as much as him is Malfoy, and it couldn’t have been him.”

“I highly doubt Severus…” Remus started to answer, while James and Sirius exchanged a concerned look.

“He was cursing Harry’s broomstick, I saw it,” Hermione answered defiantly.

“I have on doubt you saw something, but as to whether or not that something was jinxing a broomstick, I feel certain in saying you are incorrect,” Remus replied calmly, trying to be rational.

Ron sucked in a sharp breath as Hermione stood up a little straighter, and even Harry raised his eyebrows in surprise. No one ever told Hermione she was wrong, not unless they wanted to have their head bitten off at least.

“I know what it was,” she retorted, tone biting. “He was muttering to himself and he wouldn’t take his eyes off Harry, he wasn’t even blinking.”

“But why would Severus want to hurt you?” James interrupted, his eyes fixed on his son.

“I – I saw something,” Harry admitted, inexplicably feeling a little sheepish. “I think he was trying to get past the three-headed dog when he let in the troll on Halloween, to steal whatever it’s guarding.”

“What three-headed dog?” Sirius asked, and Remus looked a little confused as well. James, on the other hand, had not reacted to the news at all.

“The three-headed dog Dumbledore’s keeping on the third floor,” Ron hastened to explain.

“Harry, how do you know about that dog?” James inquired, ignoring Ron.

“We, well, we found it by mistake one night,” Harry replied. “We were hiding from Filch and we went through the door, only we didn’t realize what door it was…”

“Listen to me, Harry, listen very carefully,” James told him, “I want you to stay far away from that dog. It and what it is guarding are none of your concern, and I don’t want you to get involved in it, is that clear?”

“Do you know about this?” Sirius asked James, a note a betrayal adding tension to his voice.

“We can talk about it later,” James answered with a wave of his hand. “Harry, have I made myself clear?”

“But, if Snape’s trying to steal whatever it’s guarding, shouldn’t I –“

“Snape would do no such thing,” Remus interjected.

“You know about this too?” Sirius demanded, incredulous.

“Dumbledore asked me to consult on a question of security,” Remus answered, trying not to sound as guilty as he felt looking at the look on Sirius’ face.

“And you didn’t tell me?” Sirius reeled, stepping backwards.

“Sirius, please –“ Remus pleaded, reaching out and grabbing Sirius’ wrist. “We can discuss it later, when we’re back home. But for now, all I can say is that Dumbledore asked me to tell no one, even James and I have not spoken about it.” James nodded in confirmation. “But I suspect that he knows far more than I do about it anyway.”

Sirius shook his head slightly, black curls bouncing, but he did not move away. He remained quiet as well, though the look on his face still clearly stated that he was upset.

“Harry, Severus would not try to steal something so well-guarded,” James said, and when Harry opened his mouth to speak, he merely ploughed on, not giving his son a chance. “Even if he were, Nicholas Flamel entrusted Dumbledore for a reason, and he was right to. No one could possibly succeed in getting past Dumbledore if he desired to prevent it. Now, do I have your word that you will leave the matter alone?”

“Fine,” Harry sighed after assessing his father for a moment. Despite his agreement, Harry was still wracking his brain for any inkling of who Nicholas Flamel might be, since the name had rung some faint, deeply buried bell in his mind.

“Good, let’s all return to the castle now for dinner, shall we?” James asked, motioning toward the front doors.

“Yeah, I want to see if the common room still looks the same too,” Sirius added, sounding only marginally more cheerful than he had a few minutes earlier.

As the walked across the great, sloping lawn toward the castle, Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchanged a look that said quite clearly that they were not going to give up their investigations that easily.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I am so sorry it's taken me so long to update this story. Grad school is hard and my personal life is... well, if I told you how the past few months have been going, you wouldn't believe me. So basically, life is kicking my ass right now. I swear I haven't given up on this story, these chapters are just insanely long and thus take a tremendous amount of time to write. Anyway, enjoy this chapter with fully original content! Hooray!
> 
> As always, comments/kudos/whatever are always appreciated.

The weather worsened drastically after that first Quidditch game, the cool fall air turning to biting chill and driving rain as November turned to December. The mood in the Great Hall was quiet each morning as the enchanted ceiling unfailingly showed heavy rain, occasionally turning to sleet if it was cold enough. It was on one such morning, with Ron sleepily shovelling food into his mouth, Harry resting his head on the table in exhaustion, and Hermione alertly flipping through the pages of a book searching for references to Nicholas Flamel, that a thoroughly harassed looking brown owl flew over their heads, dripping water and dropping a soggy letter right on Harry’s head.

“Thanks, Errol,” he muttered bitterly, picking up the letter and tossing it to Ron before putting his head back down on the table.

“Oi, watch it, mate,” Ron chided, picking the letter out of his scrambled eggs, “you got it in my breakfast.”

Harry flipped him a rude gesture that made Hermione tut and shake her head disapprovingly. Ron stuck his tongue out in response, sliding his finger under the thick parchment and scanning the words rapidly.

“I can’t believe it!” he exclaimed loudly, making Harry lift his head and Hermione offer him and inquisitive glance. “It’s Mum and Dad – they’re going to Romania for Christmas!”

“So?” Harry mumbled, not quite grasping the problem.

“So,” Ron sighed in exasperation, “I’m not! They say I have to stay here for the holiday!”

“That’s rubbish,” Harry replied calmly, setting his head back down on the table. “You’ll come home with me instead.”

“Brilliant, thanks Harry!” Ron grabbed a quill from his bag and scrawled _Mum, Harry says I can go home with him instead_ on the back of the letter, folding it back up and whistling for Errol.

“I suppose I should tell Dad,” Harry said tiredly, as he sat up and pulled a piece of parchment from his bag, taking the quill that Ron offered him. “I’ll take this up to the owlery for Hedwig after classes today.”

~ ~ ~

The last few days of class came and went in a haze of sleepiness, with Harry wanting nothing more than to curl up next to the fire in the Gryffindor common room, especially after the difficult practices Oliver was putting the team through. At last, it came time to board the Hogwarts Express back to London, and Harry donned his heavy winter cloak with mounting excitement. It had only been a few weeks since he had seen his father at the Quidditch game, but he still could not wait to be home. The three of them grabbed a compartment for themselves, joined, before long, by Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas, who started a lively conversation about muggle football that Harry and Hermione joined, while Ron stared on with a bewildered expression on his face, occasionally chiming in with questions like, ‘But there’s really only one ball? And it doesn’t move on it’s own?’ After about an hour and a half, during which time they established that Hermione was (surprisingly) a lifelong Tottenham Hotspur supporter, which prompted Dean to cross his arms across his chest and refuse to speak to her (which she deemed ‘childish’ and ‘absurd’), they all gave in to the exhaustion that had been hovering over them for weeks, dozing off in their seats.

Ron was beyond distressed to learn, when he awoke, that the woman with the sweets trolley had already passed them by, and he slumped down in his seat irritably, scowling at anyone who dared to talk, until Harry got up and went in search of food for them. He came back, arms laden with goodies – chocolate frogs and pumpkin pasties and miniature treacle tarts – and dumped them all on the seat next to Ron, who dug in greedily.

“Thanks, mate,” he said through a mouthful of mince pies, and Harry grinned widely.

“Happy Christmas, everyone,” Harry said, waving a hand to indicate that they should all help themselves, and the sentiment was echoed right back.

The five of them chattered happily until the scarlet steam engine slowed, darkness settling outside the window as they pulled chugging into Kings Cross station, Harry pressing his nose to the glass, straining his eyes to catch a glimpse of his family. But Ron sees them first, tugging on Harry’s sleeve and directing his gaze to the three men standing in the middle of the platform, crowded by people who recognize the three Marauders, who know why they must be here, people who want to catch a glimpse of little Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. But Harry doesn’t care about all the people watching and waiting, he vaults off the train before it even comes to a complete stop, pushing his way through the mass of witches and wizards and wrapping his arms tightly around his father’s waist.

“Dad,” he sighed happily, and James squeezed him tightly before letting go so Remus and Sirius could have a chance too.

Ron stood awkwardly off to the side until James grabbed him for a rough hug, and he relaxed, grinning into James’ coat. He had been very upset to learn that he would be unable to return home for Christmas, as he greatly missed his family (not that he would admit it to anyone who asked), especially his annoying little sister. Christmas with Harry’s family would be nice too though, better than staying alone in the castle. And from the constant banter exchanged by the three men, he could just tell that it would be far more enjoyable than he expected.

“Right, boys,” James said authoritatively, ruffling Harry and Ron’s hair, “are you ready to go home?”

“Yes!” Harry sighed, wrapping an arm around Sirius’ waist and tucking himself into his godfather’s side. He couldn’t wait to be back in their little cottage.

“Excellent. Now, Ron, we live a bit far, so we’ll have to take you two by side-along apparition, alright?” James addressed the red-haired boy, who looked more than a little apprehensive at the idea.

“But what about our things?” he asked cautiously, and Remus stepped forward at that point.

“I’ll send them along now,” he answered, his tone rather like a teacher addressing his student. “I’ve always been rather skilled with a wand,” he added with a wink, and Sirius gave a quick, barking laugh before James shot him a look that quelled him instantly. With a wave of his wand, Remus sent the trucks away, and Ron gaped, rather impressed.

“Ron, take my hand,” James instructed, and he did as he was told. “Harry, you go with Sirius, alright?” His son grinned up from where he was practically glued to his godfather and gave a small nod. “Three – two – one –“

He spun on the spot, and Ron found himself feeling as though he were being squeezed from every possible angle, as though some invisible force were trying to press him into a tiny little ball to be blown through a straw at someone, and just as he felt as though the sensation might actually cause him lasting physical harm, he was released, drawing in the deepest breath of his life the moment he felt his lungs were able to comfortably expand again.

“Sorry,” Harry muttered when he and Sirius popped into the room next to them. “I know it’s not much fun, but it’s the fastest way to get here other than Floo, and Kings Cross isn’t exactly the most convenient place to find a fireplace. Anyway, this is it, welcome home.”

Harry eyed his best friend with trepidation as his blue eyes scanned the room, taking in everything he could see.

“It’s not very big,” James began explaining, running his hands through his hair nervously. Thirty-two years old and he still felt like he was being judged as to the competence of his adulthood every time he showed someone the home that he had created. “And we don’t have a spare bedroom, so I’m afraid you’ll have to share with Harry…”

“It’s great!” Ron said quickly, looking around at James and grinning widely. “I love all the Christmas decorations!”

“That’ll be Sirius,” Harry told him with a chuckle. “He gets really into the holiday.”

It was a slight understatement. The ceiling was covered in tiny glistening white orbs, meant to look like Muggle fairy lights, and a gigantic tree stood in the corner of the room, every inch covered in twinkling baubles and little icicles. Garlands hung from the windows and the doorframes, little mistletoe leaves and berries hanging in the middle of each strand (which had always mystified Harry, since none of them had every had anyone to kiss, although Sirius jokily placed big sloppy ones on the cheek of whomever he managed to bump into underneath, usually Remus).

On Christmas Eve, they gathered around a very old Muggle radio, fiddling with the tuner until they found the Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols being broadcast from Kings College, and they listened quietly as a Yule log crackled in the fireplace and the five of them sipped on the lamb stew that Remus made. When the broadcast had finished, Remus poured them glasses of eggnog (which Sirius spiked for the adults).

It was only a matter of minutes before Sirius was belting out Christmas carols from the top of his lungs, grabbing Harry and Ron’s hands and pulling them to their feet as he encouraged them to sing and dance.

“Won’t the neighbours hear?” Ron asked, laughing heartily, while Sirius attempted unsuccessfully to get Remus to join in the merriment.

“Nah,” Harry answered, grabbing Ron’s hands and swinging them around in an odd little dance – Sirius had charted singing Joy to the World (with some altered lyrics) as loudly as possible, and James was playing drums with his hands on the wooden coffee table.

 _Joy to the world, the boys are home_  
let us receive our gifts!  
Let every stomach prepare for food  
and Remus and Sirius sing  
and James and Sirius sing  
and Remus and James and Sirius sing!

 _Joy to the world, for Harry’s home_  
and he has brought his friend!  
_While we all sleep tonight, Santa flies his sleigh_  
_delivering lots of toys_  
delivering lots of toys  
deliver, delivering lots of toys!

They applauded him exuberantly when he had finished, and Sirius bowed so deep, the tips of his curly hair brushed against the floor.

“Alright, boys, up to bed,” James said, noticing that Harry and Ron’s cups of eggnog were empty.

“But Dad!” Harry started to protest, but James merely shook his head and smiled.

“If you don’t go up to bed right now, Santa can’t bring you any presents,” he said triumphantly, but Harry scowled in return.

“Dad, I’m eleven years old, you don’t really think I still believe that Santa’s real, do you?” he countered, placing his hands on his hips.

“WHAT?!” Sirius bellowed in mock shock, his hand on his heart and eyes wide.

“There, there, Sirius,” Remus said soothingly, patting his friend on the arm, “he didn’t mean anything by it, of course Santa is real.”

Sirius nodded in relief and shot a playful glare at Harry before grinning widely and winking.

“You heard your father, Harry,” he said jovially, his arm still around Remus’ back, “time for bed so Santa can visit.”

Harry groaned loudly and turned to Ron, shrugging before he ran up the stairs two at a time, best friend right on his heels. They turned the corner into Harry’s room, still the same blue with Tutshill Tornadoes décor and plopped down on the beds, though neither had any desire to sleep.

“Is Christmas always like this?” Ron asked quietly, staring down at his bare feet.

“Yeah, pretty much,” Harry answered with a shrug. “I mean, obviously Sirius makes up new song lyrics on the spot, but otherwise, yeah. Is it not like this at your house?”

“Not really,” Ron said slowly, as though he were choosing his words carefully. “A lot less singing, and Mum and Dad don’t really drink so much. We haven’t really had ‘Santa’ in ages either. Percy spoiled that secret for us when I was about three, and Fred and George made sure I always remembered. Ginny gets to keep believing though, Mum and Dad make sure of that. If anyone even starts to let something slip Mum boxes their ears.” He picked at a loose thread in the hem of his pajama pants. “We don’t really decorate like this either. We have a tree, but not all the lights and the garlands and stuff. Everything is homemade decorations that we all did as kids. Mum loves that stuff.”

“That sounds really nice!” Harry broke in, wanting to cheer up his friend. “I don’t think I ever really made ornaments or decorations or anything. And I’m not sure Sirius would’ve allowed it anyway, he can be kind of meticulous about his decorations.”

“Yeah, I can kind of see that,” Ron joked, a smile returning to his face. “It’s just strange, not being home for Christmas.”

“What are the rest of your brothers doing?” Harry asked, curious.

“Well, Bill is staying in Egypt, but he was going to anyway – Mum thinks he’s got a new _girlfriend_ ,” Ron wrinkled his nose on the last word, and Harry chuckled. “Percy stayed at Hogwarts, something about studying, and Fred and George are going to Lee’s house –“

“I feel bad for Lee’s parents,” Harry interjected, thinking about all the havoc the three boys would wreak during the holidays.

“Yeah,” Ron answered absent-mindedly. “And Ginny is staying with a family near us, the Lovegoods. They’ve got a daughter her age, but we don’t see her much. I wonder if her parents will choose to send her to Hogwarts next year. They’re odd people.”

Harry imagined shy little Ginny in a house full of eccentric individuals, and he felt a twinge of sympathy for her, thinking she must be really missing her family quite a bit. He leaned back in his bed, hands behind his head as he looked up at the little twinkle lights Sirius had placed on his ceiling years ago to look like stars in the night sky.

“Hey Harry?” Ron’s voice drifted over from the camp bed as Harry felt his eyes start to flutter shut. “Thanks for letting me come here for break.”

“’Course, mate,” Harry mumbled in reply, and then sleep enveloped him.

~ ~ ~

Harry woke before Ron the next morning, and he promptly jumped on top of him, shaking him and lightly punching his arms, until Ron’s bleary blue eyes opened.

“Happy Christmas, Ron,” Harry grinned from his place on top of his best friend’s knees.

“Geroffme,” the red head grumbled in return, trying to push Harry away and roll over, but Harry was stronger, thanks to all of Wood’s Quidditch practices, so instead he just pulled his pillow over his head.

“Come on,” Harry pleaded, trying to tug the pillow away from Ron. “I bet there’s loads of presents downstairs!”

Ron peeked out from under the pillow, just enough to see one freckled cheek and a sleepy blue eye.

“And Remus always makes a _really_ good breakfast,” Harry continued, saying the magic words to get Ron to launch forward, so quickly that Harry toppled sideways off the bed.

“Come on, then,” Ron grinned, extending his hand to where Harry lay on the floor.

The two boys raced down the stairs, taking them two at a time, until they stood in the living room, James, Sirius and Remus looking up at them in surprise.

“Cup of tea?” Remus asked, returning his attention to the newspaper he was holding.

“Can we have coffee?” Ron countered boldly, and Sirius grinned at his cheek.

“No,” James frowned. “Tea, pumpkin juice, or water, those are your options.”

“What about hot chocolate?” Harry asked, and James sighed, rubbing his hands through his hair.

“We don’t have any made, Harry,” James answered wearily, as though the boys were trying his patience this morning.

“Hot chocolate is fine,” Remus interrupted with a flick of his wand in the direction of the kitchen. “The milk is warming now, it’ll be done in a moment. Come, sit.”

Harry plopped down on the couch between Sirius and James, while Ron took the armchair across from Remus, nearest the tree. They sat in silence for a few minutes, with Remus occasionally flicking his wand toward the kitchen, until eventually two mugs filled with hot chocolate came floating into the living room. He didn’t usually partake in such lavish displays of his skills, but Christmas was a special occasion, after all, or maybe he was just feeling particularly lazy.

“Alright, enough dawdling,” Sirius barked out as soon as the boys both had a firm grasp on their hot chocolates, “who’s ready to open presents?!”

With a flick of James’ wand, presents began soaring through the air toward their respective recipients, while Harry and Ron looked on with glee. Everyone tore into their presents voraciously, with the exception of Remus, who opened each and every gift meticulously, careful to rip as little paper as possible. Sirius was the worst, flinging the wrappings every which way, making a bigger mess than even the most exuberant child.

Harry opened the gifts from his family first – special shoes for Quidditch with extra grip so that he could stand on the broom or hook his feet up onto it for more speed from his father; spell checking quills and anti-bleeding parchment from Remus; XXX from Sirius. Ron had given him a big box of wizarding candies (Harry had given him a bunch of muggle ones), and Hermione had sent him _Quidditch Through the Ages_. A rather lumpy package turned out to be a sweater knitted by Mrs. Weasley – crimson, a large, gold H in the centre - with a box of homemade fudge as well.

There was one final present under the tree, a big thick bundle wrapped in metallic paper, marked _To: Harry, Use it well. The Marauders_.

“Dad,” Harry started, looking inquisitively at James, “who are the Marauders? And why’ve they sent me a present?”

“I’ve no idea,” James answered, but there was a hint of mischief in his blue eyes as he exchanged glances with Sirius and Remus. “Go ahead, let’s see what it is.”

Harry tore the paper off and a long length of heavy silver fabric fell onto his lap. He furrowed his brow in confusion and stood, unfolding the fabric until he held in front of him a very long traveling cloak. It was made of mostly silver brocade, with bits of red, gold, and blue all woven in. It was clearly far too large for him, he could tell just by holding it up, but something made him feel as though he ought to try it on anyway, so he did. Ron gasped immediately, but Harry didn’t even look up to see his or James’, Sirius’, and Remus’ expressions of surprise. He was far too busy looking down at his body, or at least where his body had been, because it was now gone, vanished into thin air.

“I – I’m invisible,” Harry murmured, holding up an arm experimentally, but he could see nothing.

“That is quite a remarkable cloak,” Remus said quietly, but Harry did not see the wink he gave Sirius and James.

“What do you think they mean, ‘use it well’?” Harry asked his best friend, but Ron merely shrugged.

“Dunno, maybe they mean we should use it to play pranks on Filch!” Ron answered enthusiastically.

If Harry had been paying attention, he might have heard Sirius mutter something then about giving the cloak to the ‘wrong boy’. Remus tried very hard to keep a straight face as he attempted to get the two young boys’ attention.

“Harry, Ron, there’s some fresh brioche in the kitchen,” he said, nodding toward the adjacent room, “with some homemade jam. The eggs are just finishing scrambling now and then the bacon will fry. Help yourself to whatever you like, but don’t fill up too much, there’s not long until dinner, and we’ve plenty of food to be eaten.”

Harry and Ron exchanged delighted looks and flung their gifts aside, racing to the kitchen to pile food high on plates for breakfast.

“They’re going to be so stuffed tonight, some wild animal is going to mistake them for a meal,” Sirius laughed as he shook his head at the boys.

The rest of the day went much the same as Christmas Eve – astounding amounts of delicious food prepared by Remus, copious amounts of liquor imbibed (mostly by Sirius), and the perfect amount of laughter, singing, and general merriment, before two young boys and three young-at-heart men fell asleep in some form of disarray in the living room.


End file.
